


No Role Models

by forkflower



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angry Tubbo, Angst, Childhood Friends, College Friends, DadSchlatt, Dysfunctional Parenting, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Late night talks, Lots of drinking, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Wilbur, Soft Schlatt, Tommy and Tubbo Friendship, Tubbo is 14, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, bc he doesn’t like people knowing his actual name, delinquent tommyinnit, familial custody arrangements, fighting and yelling, he’s a rat, minx and schlatt are implied exes, minx enters the chat, minx mother’s toby, new parenting, not too bad though, protective schlatt, sad tubbo, schlatt and wilbur fist fight it’s great, schlatt has a fake name, shes a bitch to tommy tho lol, smoking pot, techno blade big brother, technos a bitch, tommy is 15, trying his best, wilbur is just a child bookie stoner, wilbur lives off of daddy’s money, wilburs like a cool uncle, younger brother tommyinnit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forkflower/pseuds/forkflower
Summary: And from behind him, stepped out a kid. There was a purple tinge hanging under his eyes and he kept gaze his down to the ground. He had messy brown hair, and he must’ve been no older than fourteen.“Is this the residence of Jason Schlatt?” The man asked.Schlatts eyebrows were raised in hesitancy.“...Yes?”
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Tommyinnit & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 135
Kudos: 1253





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i’m teefumz, world renowned mcyt fanartist and a business savvy enigma

“Is this your complex, sir?”

“Yes,” Schlatt slurred in response without looking up from the cab floor. “Thanks man.”

He raised an unsteady hand to pat his pocket and pulled out his worn leather wallet, opening it and glancing through the fogged window to his right. He squinted as the warm streetlight engulfed his blurred vision.

“Uh... How much?”

“Don’t worry about it, you were two blocks down. And I feel bad for you,” The driver chuckled through crooked teeth, looking back at him. “-‘s gonna be a nasty hangover tomorrow, friend.”

Schlatt raised an eyebrow. He sighed, closing the wallet and tucking it into the pocket of his hoodie. He hastily grabbed his phone, holding it to his chest and opening the door. “Thanks.”

Schlatt would’ve normally had the energy and initiative to insist on giving the driver _something_ , but he settled that it’d be best to not spend money that he busts his ass for just out of the kindness of his heart.

He planted a foot onto the road beneath him, pushing the swaying in his head away from his focus. 

_Steady, steady_. He repeated under his breath.

“G’Night.” He pushed the sticky car door closed. Nasty ass cab.

The crunch of gravel underneath the tires faded as the car drove off and he trudged up to the steps of his front entrance.

The complex he lived in was by no means run down. It was a ground-level apartment. He couldn’t stand having neighbors complete surrounding him. 

The exterior was brick, a worn red dusted with overgrown weeds and vines from the small squares of landscaping on either side of the black railing along three concrete steps.

And for what you could get on that side of New York, the area was pretty damn nice. His neighbors weren’t the worst. They mostly kept to themselves, never sparing more than an occasional wave to Schlatt as he came home. His last neighbors were a middle-aged couple and their two young, entitled kids, who lived directly across the hall and _quite literally_ made Schlatt want to shove a whole bottle of ibuprofen and headache killers down his throat.

He fiddled with his keychain, squinting at a gold one through a fuzzy haze. He unlocked the door, throwing his keys onto the side table beside him and throwing his body half-hazardously over the backrest of his small couch.

The interior of his apartment was nothing too remarkable. He never replaced the furniture that was already there, like the black leather couch with ripped corners and frayed edges along the armrests, the creaky, dark stained, matching wooden headboards in either two of the rooms he had, the table beside the door, a few other things.

The furniture he did take the liberty to pick himself, however, were modern. Mostly darks and neutrals. He took the time to look for stools for the kitchen island for the sake of not having the wasted space of a dining table. He bought his coffee table. His accent chairs (Yes, accent chairs. He’d gotten shit before for buying two. ‘ _Are you a grandma?_ ’ _They pulled the environment together,_ he argued). His TV. A considerable amount of appliances.

He splurged on light fixtures to hang above the kitchen as well as for the living room, the hallway, and his bedroom. Cool toned lightbulbs were his best friend. He was always one for a clean atmosphere.

The room spiraled around him, the popcorn ceiling falling in and out of focus as he stirred. He yawned, internally grimacing at the haze of liquor at the back of his throat. He didn’t remember how many times ordered another glass of scotch whiskey.

Tracing the seam of the pocket of his hoodie, he shut his eyes. His legs tingled. He was lightheaded in the best way possible.

_Then why do I feel like shit_ , he thought.

Why did he feel the need to go to the bar alone on a Sunday night in the first place?

He definitely had fun. He met a few girls, yet didn’t click enough with any of them to take them home. Airheads were all he could attract. They were all he felt the confidence to attract.

But, sitting alone, staring at his ceiling and listening to the gentle whir of his AC, he couldn’t help but feel that familiar tinge of regret. The type of emptiness in your chest that bites at your lungs after you finally come home from a party, a mixture of isolation and deep, deep reflection.

He wasn’t a stranger to that feeling. It brought back nostalgia from nearly every Sunday morning after he turned fifteen. Even some Mondays, he would sit in the back of his first period with his forehead glued to his desk as he slept to distract himself from the soreness pulsating through his entire body.

It’s just never something that you can learn to enjoy. Although he had become concerningly numb to the regret pooling in his stomach—it never failed to send him into a state of weariness.

“Why do I do this to myself?” He muttered to himself, covering his eyes with his forearms and allowing himself to sink deeper into the cushions. 

He felt the jab of his phone under his back and reached down to pull it from under him. He was still too drunk to be on his phone, but it couldn’t hurt to see what had happened in the past three hours or so.

6 missed calls from _Unknown Number_

2 missed calls from _Wanker_

_ Wow, he thought. People actually called me. That’s new. _

He threw his phone back down and brought the nape of his hoodie up to his face, covering his nose and mouth and yawning.

He had friends, he did. But they were those old friendships from school that rekindled once every two months. Get a call every once in a while, get fucked in someone’s basement with the old circle of people that hadn’t moved across the country and moved on with their lives.

Despite the fact that he hadn’t already gotten married, or bought his own house in a suburban white town or whatever people were doing when they found themselves “successful,” he definitely was doing well for himself. At least better than he had thought he’d ever been able to be, and definitely more so than what he had been _told_ he’d never reach.

He laughed to himself. He wished he could laugh in those fuckers faces.

His phone rang from where he tossed it, pulsing vibrations near his feet as he groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

_Wanker_ is calling

“ _Jesus Christ_...” He picked up, holding the phone to his ear and turning to sit normally. “What do you want man?”

“Schlatt! What’s up!”

“You called me like, three times for what, Will?”

The other voice was scratchy. It was abnormally jumpy, fluctuating in the usual inflections that Schlatt heard often through the phone. “I-I don’t know... miss you, love you.”

“... Are you _drunk_?”

“Maybe. A little. You?”

“Yes.”

“Awesome,” Will laughed. “You went out?”

Schlatt stood up, grip on the armrest as he found balance on his numb feet. He raised his arms up, stretching, back cracking in a release of stiffness. “You know it. Probably shouldn’ta’, though. I don’t wanna be an alcoholic.”

“Too late for that, bud— * _hic_ *...”

“Shut the fuck up.” Schlatt couldn’t think of another response, deducing that he was right— in some capacity. “Ubered to the bar near yours.”

“Why didn’t you come over?” Wilbur coughed, audio cutting from the jump in volume.

“Didn’t know you had alcohol. You just... stayed home and drank... by yourself?” He laughed, staggering to the kitchen. He bent down over the island and pressed his forehead onto the cool marble countertop to appease the drumming behind his temples.

“Yes, yes I am. Wont be able to, soon— Oh, yes, I... I haven’t told you.” Will slurred.

“Haven’t told me what?” He turned his head on the counter to face the phone, tossed aside to the left and on speaker.

“Eh, ‘m too drunk to remember,” He stopped to take a sip from a bottle, Schlatt could hear from the whistle of the glass. “Y’know what, I’m still gonna drink. Nothing’s stopping me.”

“You’re such a fiend.” Schlatt couldn’t pretend to know or care about what Will was talking about. But in the light of his eyes he had bigger fish to fry, than worry about Wilburs alcoholism or why it may be forced to stop. But he had no room to talk. “Just may be good for you.”

“You know what may be good for you?”

“ _What_.”

“Some bitches.”

Schlatt scoffed. He stood up, turning and swinging the cabinet above him open. He scarfed the same bag of hot cheetos down only when he was sure he had alcohol poisoning, there was something about the type of burn in his throat that contrasted so heavily with the kind he had grown tolerant of. The bag was almost empty. “I have women _all_ over me.”

“You haven’t been in a relationship since...” Wilbur chuckled. “Yeah, it’s been a fucking while. Four years?”

“So what?” He tipped the bag into his mouth, pouring too many cheetos out. It couldn’t have been _four years_ , that’s a long ass time.

“You’re like a lonely old man. Livin’ by himself in a condo. With accent chairs.”

“Your apartment looks like a hipster piece of shit. Go wear a sweater and play guitar, fucking soy boy.” He rolled the chip bag up and tossed it wherever in the cabinet. He threw the doors shut.

“Jumper.”

“Jesus you fucking brit, i’ll shove a jumper up your ass, I’m busy having the best night of my life—“

“Low standards, huh.” Will took another swig of what Schlatt assumed was straight vodka. His favorite. “Are you off tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m not a victim of the 9 to 5 lifestyle, young man.” He kicked his Timbs off and towards the front door. He’d clean up later when he wasn’t fighting to keep his eyes open, despite wanting anything but to ignore the warping of the room around him.

“I don’t work.”

“Yes, I know. Unfair, complete and total bullshit.”

Wilbur laughed. “Well I’m coming over tomorrow, then. We’ll throw a getty.”

“Please, no.” Schlatt groaned jokingly. He almost always made a fuss about when Wilbur asked to come over, not that it ever stopped him from doing so nor did it stop himself from happily letting him in.

“I’m going to bed. Maybe drinking more. ’M gonna see where the wind takes me.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go assassinate a member of the royal family.”

“See you t’morrow—”

“No you aren’t. You’re not coming.”

“I’ll bring liquor!”

“ _Good night_.”

— _Beep_ —

He hung up the call. He drowsily hit the light switches on the wall adjacent to the fridge, bleak darkness surrounding him suddenly. Running his hand along the wall, he dragged himself through the doorway of his bedroom.

Throwing off his hoodie, he dropped it on the floor and slumped into the mess of sheets on his bed.

He let himself sink into the coolness of the comforter, a heavenly contrast from the heat of his body. Liquor always makes his skin radiate _ungodly_ warmth.

Exhaling deeply, he felt his muscles finally relax, and rest from the aching he’d repressed from his focus.

And he felt himself and his conscience slowly float away. Sleep enveloped him.

——-

_ —Ding Dong—Ding Dong— _

His eyes stayed clamped shut, avoiding the burn of sun peeking through the blinds beside him as he woke.

He groaned, praying to himself that whoever was ringing his doorbell would go away in the following 30 seconds. He turned over and shoved the pillow besides him onto his face, muffling his ears.

_ —Ding Dong— _

_ Jesus fucking Christ.  _

It took every ounce of control in his body to will himself to sit up. He threw his legs over the bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his coarse knuckles.

This hadn’t been the first time someone unexpectedly made their presence known at his front doorstep— _It could’ve been one of two options_ , he knew.

He sluggishly stood up, the pounding in his head even worse than before he fell asleep. He poured out two— no _, three_ red pills from the bottle of ibuprofen beside his bed.

It couldn’t be the landlord. He had payed all his dues on time and that had never faltered.

The pills were dry swallowed as he looked around and picked up anything to put on. 

Because in the instance that it was that mom and her younger daughter who had come around two days prior to sell him chocolate bars, he’d feel bad to answer them in nothing but a pair of khaki joggers.

He shoved himself into a random blue tshirt and kicked the sweatshirt from the night before behind him on the way out of his room. 

He had to squint, sunlight completely filled the entirety of his apartment completely contrasting from the black of his bedroom. Light reflected from the living room window onto an appliance that he couldn’t name and into his eyes.

He struggled to read the time off of the digital clock on his oven. _12:42._

And _oh God, he slept for a while._

— _Knock Knock_ —

“Please, I don’t want chocolate!” He yelled, almost running to the door with more annoyance in his step, turning the lock. He turned the knob, shielding his face as the sliver of more bright light grew wider. “I thought I made it clear last time to stop bringing your daughter here—“

It wasn’t the little girl with her wagon of chocolate bars.

An older man in a suit stood on his porch. He held a briefcase of dulled leather and wore a slightly crooked tie.

And from behind him, stepped out a kid. There was a purple tinge hanging under his eyes and he kept his gaze down to the ground. He had messy brown hair, and he must’ve been no older than fourteen.

“Is this the residence of _Jason Schlatt_?” The man asked.

Schlatts eyebrows were raised in hesitancy. 

“... _Yes_?”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shares are appreciated!!

When Schlatt was growing up, he lived in Georgia with his family. He lived in a run-down house, with his mom, dad, and older sister. 

He had few memories of his childhood. He remembered the smell of mildew in his clothes. He remembered catching garden lizards in the over grown weeds that crept up the sides of his house. He remembered his sister teaching him how to ride his bike down the sidewalk.

But he had also remembered the burn of cigarette smoke in his nostrils, feeling it every time he ran through his living room. He remembered sitting alone with his teacher after school, until nearly nine at night, waiting to be picked up.

He remembered hearing the sounds of arguing voices through the walls at night, while his older sister held him and told him fun stories of her friends and the trouble they got into.

He remembered when he was nearly eight years old, and a woman knocking on the door. 

She told him and his sister, _pack your bags. Pack only things you really need._

He remembered seeing his parents, standing in the driveway and staring blankly at the car that drove them away.

And he remembered waving to them through the back window, not knowing that he’d never see them again.

——

“Full name?”

“Uh. Jason Carter Schlatt.”

“You’re _twenty four_ , with...” The man flipped through a few packets of papers he took out from his briefcase, opened and sprawled across the coffee table between them. “High School diploma, associates, and a degree in...”

“Business and Marketing.” Schlatt sat in a suede chair, faced towards the man, Dicker, as he introduced himself, and the kid on the opposite end of the sofa.

His shirt was wrinkled, and red marks strung across the side his forearm as if he’d been uncomfortably sleeping.

His shoes were lined along the sole with dried mud. He clung onto a backpack— a worn one, zipper nearly bursting from fullness that sat on his lap.

“And you work?”

“I work as a product marketer at the printing firm— Ah, advertisements...”

Dicker flipped another page, clicked his pen on his knee and wrote something down. He didn’t break his gaze from the stack of papers in his hand.

“...and stuff.”

Schlatt was seething in confusion. In his stomach, was the stir of fear and hesitancy. 

His knee bounced up and down as he tried to ignore the heat running through his back. 

The man was a _familial lawyer_ , he had explained as he stood at the front steps of Schlatt’s door. He dealt with inheritance and custodial arrangements, he said. Schlatt had no clue what that had to do with him. 

“What’s the salary like?”

“80k.”

He wrote something else down.

“And I have a copy of your residential information here, you live alone, correct?”

Schlatt couldn’t help but feel put off, that the man had done such extensive research into his living situation, if more that the fact that they had just _shown up at his door_. “Yeah. I do.”

Dicker checked something off on another paper.

Schlatt made glances to the kid. His head was hung low. His frail fingers tugged at loose threads hanging from his sweatpants. And quite honestly, he looked a mess.

He couldn’t help, through the tinge of interest in his chest, but wonder, _what is he doing in my house?_

He hoped that this wasn’t a surprise from one of his one night stands. Child support seemed like a huge burden on his financial arrangements. Wait no, that would mean that he got a girl pregnant before he started middle school.

“Ah, sir, can I ask... why you’re asking me all these questions? Why are you here?”

The other man stopped skimming through the lines of one of his forms, finger tracing downwards stopping. He set it down neatly onto a stack of others. 

“Well, I’ve called quite a bit. Never gotten a response.” He pushed a pair of wire-framed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. “I apologize for the inconvenience-”

_ I guess that must’ve been the six missed calls other than from Wilbur from last night. _

“-But I can assure you. These are relevant questions.”

_ Relevant for what? _

Schlatt pulled at the collar of his shirt. Impatience grew within him. “...You said you’re a family lawyer? What does that have to do with me?”

“One of my clients,” Dicker looked up to meet Schlatt’s gaze. “was Jessica, current last name Goodman.”

_ Jessica? _

His heartbeat faltered, stomach turning in surprise.

Schlatt hadn’t heard that name in a long time.

His leg stopped bouncing in place. His stare was fixated at nothing in particular.

“I’m under the impression that you haven’t been in contact with her— or your parents, in quite some time.”

_ No. He hadn’t. She was kicked from the adoption system after one year, after she turned eighteen. He woke up to an empty top bunk. _

“I— uh, no. I guess not.” He chewed his tongue.

“She had been deemed, as of yesterday, unfit at this moment to continue to have legal guardianship of her child.”

_ She had a child? _

He glanced to the kid, uncertainly. Hesitantly.

“I don’t want to go too far in detail— which I’m sorry about. You have every right to know. But as of now, I need to process a few plans for Toby, here,” He gestured to his left, to the kid slumped across the couch from him. “and it just so happens that you’re her only recorded relative. Good thing you only lived twenty minutes drive away.”

Desperately, he wanted to say, _No— tell me. I need to know more than just ‘She had been deemed unfit at this moment to continue to have legal guardianship of her child.’ What does that mean?_

Suddenly his hangover relapsed. The pounding beneath his skull became more and more prominent with every shallow heave of his chest. He scratched at the wrinkles that bunched at the knees of his joggers.

“I’m legally inclined to request— that he stays with you temporarily. I have a few forms for you— a copy of his social security card, passport, insurance cards-“

“He’s living with me? Here with me?” His voice shook before the words left his throat. 

He felt bad for the tone of his voice and the way it made the kid shift his weight in his seat.

The lawyer loosely held the pen in his hand, tapping it onto his bent knee and reaching down to the table to slightly adjust a paper. He aligned the corner of one, tilting it to be parallel with the other besides it. His face read quizzical, strategic. As if he were picking the right words out to say. 

“Temporarily. I have to find all of his records and run it through processing for CPS and the adoption system.”

Schlatt remembered his entrapment in the system. He didn’t have any memories of familiarity that he held dear to his heart, when he thought of his time being moved from group home, to foster parents, to group home.

“The adoption system.” Schlatt muttered to himself.

Silence— for a moment, as he thought. 

His stare fell back again to the kid. Toby, he said his name was.

He had those same soft features. Those downturned eyes that Schlatt would share tears with, and the thin fingers that held his hand and caressed his cheeks.

_Sympathy_. His chest felt strained, tongue feeling dry.

He gulped, thinking, _Let him stay. It’s temporary._

_ I can’t babysit this kid. _

_ Look at him. He’s terrified. _

_ When did Jess have a son? _

_ I’m not fit to be responsible for him. _

_ I cant even take care of myself. _

He blinked hard, ridding his mind of the voices in his subconscious and running a sweaty hand through his hair.

“I, uh—“ 

_He’s your family_.

Curse him and his good conscience.

“—I suppose, he could stay with me until you do.”

The kid looked up at him, innocently surprised with widened eyes. _Those eyes_.

Dicker raised a keen eyebrow, shoulders lifting in a release. 

“May I see the spare room?”

Schlatt slowly raised to his feet, body painfully numb. He stepped aside and raised an arm to gesture to the doorway just near them, across the hallway adjacent to the living room.

It was his guest room. He never went in there, but sometimes a friend who wasn’t sober enough to drive home stayed and would spend the night.

Toby clutched his backpack to his chest and walked, a calloused hand patting his back. They followed Schlatt in, standing in the doorway as he hit the light switch.

It was plain. The full sized mattress was propped by a box spring in the middle of the room, underneath a standard-modern white ceiling fan with a domed light bulb, buzzing as it started to run.

There were two sliding doors that opened to a reasonably size closet. Beside it wasa standard TV mounted to the wall, above a dark stained dresser ( _Wilbur, after getting tired of having to walk twelve feet to the living room to watch TLC on the extremely rare occasion that he stayed over, had taken the liberty to just buy Schlatt an extra TV and left it in hallwaywhile he was at work. What a brat._ ).

It was a nice room. It didn’t warrant any doubt that a guest would be neglected in their stay. 

Thus Dicker didn’t further inspect it before bending down slightly to the boys eye level and patting his disheveled hair. “Do you want to get settled, Toby?”

The kid nodded just slightly in response. He turned to look up at Schlatt.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, and small— and sounded nearly forced.

He was tiny. His arms were thin and his neck was craned upwards to meet his eyes. Yet his cheeks were full, red dusting across his face. He looked like a malnourishment poster child.

Schlatt rubbed his elbow, arms crossed. “Ah, yeah, kid.” _He didn’t know what else to say._

He was returned a small smile. Schlatt couldn’t tell if the unease behind it was simply a product of overwhelmed exhaustion, or because it lacked genuinity. 

Dicker straightened and turned on his heel as the boy walked with his bag to the bed. Schlatt closed the door, slowly, just halfway open. He followed the other man back to the living room.

“Let me get you those forms.” The lawyer held a lax knee, as he bent over the stacks spread across the table. “I don’t have his birth certificate, part of what I need to do is get a notarized copy of-“

“Sir, what happened to her?” Schlatt kept his voice low. He clutched the leather corner of the couch, fingers digging into the headrest.

“Ms. Goodman?”

_ Who else would it be? For fucks sake... _

“Yes, Ms— I mean, yeah, Jess. Jessica—Ms. Goodman, what’s wrong with her?”

Schlatt was nearly frantic. His head felt nothing more than what he described as hot. Scolding hot, so hot that steam clouded his other senses.

Dicker pushed the wire of his glasses up with his middle finger, holding the yellow folder that he’d picked up to his chest. His precision and patience only made Schlatt more inundated. 

“...Well. To my knowledge, the authorities were called on multiple occasions,” He stacked a few folders on top of each other. “Concerns of _yelling, banging..._ ”

He placed them into the bare of his briefcase, flipping the other side and closing the two latches with his free hand. “Other violent behavior— just from whatever they could’ve observed from the front door, apparently, made them feel obligated to call CPS.”

He clutched the handle and lifted it to hang at his side, ambling to Schlatt and holding the yellow folder to him.

“But if you’re asking if she’s alright, it’d be up to how you interpret amphetamine and percocet addiction.”

Schlatt loosened the deathly grip on the cushion, taking the folder in a tremulous hand.

_ Amph and percocet addiction. _

He almost wanted to laugh. Because he had been naive enough— to grow up with the impression that she was stronger than that.

A lot of thoughts overwhelmed his head. _He barely remembered her. He barely could render an image in his mind when he thought of what she looked like. She was all he had in times when he didn’t know what else he could’ve needed._

He finally found himself thinking of her not with longing and euphoria— but with pity. _Neutrality_.

He bit down the tip of his thumb nail between his teeth and a gold capping on his canine. “...How long?”

“For what?” The other man showed himself to the door.

Schlatt followed. “How long is the kid— _Toby_ , is gonna stay here? ’M fine if he does, just—“

“I’d have to get back to you on that.”

They stood halfway through the front door.

“ _You don’t know_?” He scoffed, completely and utterly confounded. “How don’t you know?”

The lawyer shielded his eyes from the sun rays beaming directly above the two, looking up at him from the lowered step of the porch.

“I’ll call for updates— when i have an exact number. It wouldn’t be anymore than a month.”

A month, Schlatt thought.

_ A month is a long fucking time. I cant do this for a month. I don’t even like kids. _

“...Okay, sir.” _Why did he say that?_

The other man walked further down and to the black mini cooper parked right beside the curb.

“Answer your phone, next time, please!” He called, pulling open the front door. He stopped, looking up to Schlatt. “He’s a good kid. You’ll be fine.”

Schlatt raised a lazy hand to bid him a goodbye as he pulled out into the road and drove away.

He pulled the handle towards him, hesitantly. He knew that the open door was the only security between Schlatt and the idea that _normality_ had slipped away. And it closing would seclude him, and confirm it—what he knew he wasn’t whole enough to handle.

He backed away, hitting his heel on the boot he’d thrown from last night. He left it again, he still didn’t care enough to put it away.

Schlatt dropped himself into a stool at his counter, rubbing his painfully dry eyes. His headache had subsided, thank god he had a bottle of ibuprofen next to his bed.

He looked up, blinking hard to focus the blur of his surroundings. 

Dropping his head low and onto the cool countertop, he slouched into himself and exhaled deeply.

He needed to process.

_ His sister turned out to be a deadbeat. After nearly fifteen years of imagining the complexities and successes of her life, she became the thing that she’d sworn not to. One month at most, he’s watching her kid.  _

He didn’t know how the words had escaped his mouth before they filtered through his logic, when he agreed to take him in.

He didn’t know if he could do this.

—Knock Knock—

Hinges creaked, and lanky feet scuffed the edge of the tile. They upbeatedly stepped into the entryway. 

“I know— I know.... _Will, why the fuck are you here so early, it’s like, 8 in the morning_ , well, it’s actually 2,” The voice kicked the door closed behind him. “Which means that we can start—“

They walked up to and around the kitchen island and dropped a large brown paper bag in front of Schlatt. It clunked, glass bottles clattering into each other.

“—drinking.”

_ Wilbur. He forgot that Wilbur was coming over. This motherfucker. _

Schlatt kept his forehead glued to the counter. 

Wilbur shook his coat down his shoulders and tossed it onto the couch across from them. “Still hungover?” He chuckled.

He wished that the only thing wrong with his day was a dumb migraine and grogginess. “ _Yeah_.”

Will walked around the counter and leaned down, resting on his elbows. He held his head right next to Schlatt’s. He whispered, “I brought your favorite girly drinks. I got rosé. I got fruit cocktails. _Wine spritzers_.”

Schlatt raised his head, craning it to look up as Will straightened out. “As much as my interest is peaked, _no_. Not tonight— not today. I just had the biggest plot twist of my life.”

He dropped his back head down, thudding onto the marble.

Will pushed his sleeves higher onto his forearms. He moved behind Schlatt’s stool and gripped the base of the seat, turning it and spinning him around.“Did you finally find love?”

“ _No_.” Schlatt slouched groggily in the stool, supported vertically by hands gripping the sides of his shoulders.

“Then what could be so groundbreaking?” Will laughed, in that stupid accent.

Schlatt swayed lazily, head thrown back in exhaustion. “God, your voice is so pretentious. There’s a kid in my guest room.”

“ _Like hell._ ”

_He thinks this is a fucking joke._ “There’s a fucking fourteen year old in my apartment.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look, here, all his papers and shit.” Schlatt picked up the folder on the counter before slapping it back down. “On god, man.”

Will stepped aside to flip the cover of the card stock. _A passport. Insurance cards. Medical summary forms._

“What?” Wilburs eyebrows furrowed. His grip on Schlatt’s arms tightened as his head shot into the direction of the hallway. “There’s a kid in there?”

“Long story.”

“Schlatt, did you kidnap someone?”

“No!” Schlatt snapped his neck up. He reached up and held the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Jesus Christ, Wilbur. And lower your voice, his goddamn doors open!”

“Why is there a kid in there?!”

“He’s my nephew who I didn’t know existed.”

“You have a family?!”

“No! I mean— well, y— I, yes. No! I don’t. I have, had... a sister.”

“Schlatt,” Wilbur ran a slender hand through his fluffed hair. He exhaled, chuckling. “I’m not sober enough to hear this.”

He would’ve been surprised that Wilbur didn’t interrogate him for details, but he knew that Will was the type that didn’t press farther than what he was given. He read the other like a book, and knew when Schlatt wasn’t fit to give answers. He would probably ask later.

Schlatt chewed on his thumbnail again. “Me neither.”

Wilbur tugged on Schlatt’s sleeve. He pulled him out of the stool, and towards the hall. “Show me.”

“I don’t know if we should bother him—“ Schlatt deemed. Yet he didn’t resist being beckoned to the guest room door.

It was halfway open, yellow light shining through. The buzz of the ceiling fan rang in his ears.

Wilbur and Schlatt stood just before the edge of the doorframe, peeking their heads in.

The boy faced away from the door, curled into a ball on the bed, knees hugged tightly up to his chest. He laid at the very foot of the bed above the covers, not even on a pillow.

They heard the soft exhales of his breathing, his shoulders rising with every shallow snore.

Schlatt reached for the light switch beside the doorway, cutting the fan and the light above him. Wilbur closed the door slowly.

“Holy shit,” Wilbur pressed his back into the wall. Schlatt leaned next to him, slidingdown and to the floor.

He held his legs to his chest. “That’s him.”

“He’s _yours_ now?” Wilburs button-up brushed down the wall as he joined Schlatt on the floor. His knees were bent slightly, legs too long for the narrowness of the hall. 

Schlatt’s head was buried into his forearms, rested atop this knees. “Lawyer said a month tops.”

Will clutched a hand onto his shoulder. 

“And... your sister?”

Schlatt bit his tongue. _He didn’t know what to say, what could he say about her?_

He didn’t answer.

Wilbur didn’t mind. His head was rested upwards, facing towards the ceiling.

Schlatt felt his chest quiver as he exhaled. His lungs were needier for more air, as his shoulders twitched.

“Schlatt?” Will looked over.

He sniffled. He tried desperately to hold it in, hold in the overwhelming feeling of perplexity and shock. His senses had been completely constricted the entire day— blurred tunnel vision and numb fingers. His mind was absent of any and all sensibilities until then, when he felt everything. The crawl on his skin, the pooling of moisture behind his eyes. 

“I— I don’t know what to do, I...” His voice cracked. 

And he sobbed into the knitted fabric of Wilburs shoulder, arms encapsulating him in a strong embrace.

Schlatt squeezed Wilburs torso, shaking from the attempted suppression of his gasps for air.

He’d never been a fan of crying.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wooooooh nelly! they talk!

Will’s comfort was elongated for as long as it took for the ducts behind Schlatt’s eyes to run out of moisture.

The two had refuted their initial agenda of that day after the discourse of circumstances. Yet Schlatt found himself tossing away a few empty tin cans of rosé wine spritzers sprawled through the floor of his living room, tipped over above the fur rug underneath the coffee table. 

They took it easy. They had drank with the intent of not to get shit-faced, but as an ease. An aid in Schlatt’s calm. He was proud of them— for being adults, engaging in quiet chatter and meaningful conversation. 

Simple endearments, laughter of exhaustion, and the parting words of, ‘ _You’re gonna be fine, it’s gonna be fine_.’ until he’d took his leave. He knew that Schlatt liked to have time to himself in periods of discomposure.

And Schlatt did feel better— or for lack of a better term, _less overwhelmed_. The scramble of his brain calmed to mild tensity. 

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, picking apart the disorientation of the man standing in front of him. Puffy eyes, creased lines cradling the bottom of each, light stubble reforming along his jawline. 

If he had one word to describe who he was looking at, he’d say— they were tired. Angry. Confused.

He gripped the edges of the counter, head bowed to the sink. Long, shaky breaths occupied the focus of his mind. Deep inhales, deeper exhales. 

He was never one for sharing what was his. Sharing his harsh thoughts. Sharing his food. His room. His space.

_ I may just be over reacting. What’s the harm in keeping an eye on ‘em, for a little.  _

He threw cold water onto his face, rubbing his swollen eyes. 

_ A month. In the grand scheme of things, a month isn’t long at all. _

He hit the light switch and left, lumbering through his room and into the length of his hallway.

Schlatt hadn’t heard a peep, a click, a creak, anything— from the first door on the right until hours after Wilbur had closed the door ever so carefully.

His pace slowed as he came closer to the door of the spare room, the scuff of steps halting as he stopped just in front of it.

He was an adult. He should be welcoming.

_Like hell, I’m not a welcoming person._ He scoffed to himself.

The gentle whir and light from the ceiling fan peeked from under the door. He must’ve woken up.

Schlatt raised an uncertain hand and knocked lightly with a knuckle.

Light, hesitant footsteps gradually came to the door, shadows cutting through the edge of light peering from below the door.

It opened with a creak. 

“Hey, Toby.” He scratched the back of his neck.

“‘ello, Mister Jason.” The boy returned.

His shirt was wrinkled and his hair was frizzed on one side. He stood in his worn black sweatpants and uneven socks that were too big for him. 

The top of his head barely reached to Schlatt’s collar bones. His neck craned up at the other.

His downturned, puffy eyes pierced right through him. They were guarded, artificially whole.

“Did you unpack your sh- ah, your stuff?”

“Yeah.” His voice was hollow.

“Okay.” Two words into the conversation and Schlatt felt like there was nothing left to say. “...How you feelin’, kid?”

He needed to be cordial. _Friendly_.

The boy yawned into his palm and rubbed an eye with the other. “I’m... okay.” He uttered. His tone would be unreadable, for someone who hadn’t been keen on social observation.

Schlatt held a hand high onto the frame of the door. He forced the words through his throat. “...You wanna talk about it?”

He wouldn’t have blamed the kid if he said no. He himself didn’t even know if he wanted to.

Toby looked down. He shrugged, stepping aside. “Sure.”

_ Here we go. _

Schlatt stepped through onto the carpet lining the ground, breeze hitting him and spreading bumps across his forearms.

He lowered himself at the foot of the bed, trying not to sink into the comforter from exhaustion.

Toby tentatively crawled to the other end, between the two pillows leaning onto the headboard, lanky knees to his chest. He slouched forwards, picking at his nails and scratching his arms awkwardly.

Schlatt didn’t know how to start. He knew that it wasn’t his ideal situation— it wasn’t Tobys, either. That didn’t have to be said out loud to be present in the air, hanging over the both of them.

He couldn’t have dreaded anything more than how much he dreaded awkward, mutual silence.

They sat facing away from each other. 

Schlatt’s head hung slightly as he studied the dips and grooves of the bottom of the dresser.

He wouldn’t have had any idea of how their conversation would go. What they wanted to talk about—what they even had to talk about. The kid wasn’t exactly in the best place to have pleasant conversation.

But, he settled, that he wasn’t either.

“...You just woke up?” _What a starter,_ he thought.

“Yeah. ‘was tired.”

It was definitely a response. But not a lot to work with.

Schlatt shifted his weight around. “You slept for a while— like five hours.”

He was met with blank silence.

“It looked like you needed it.”

More silence—then, “Been a while.” In a low voice.

“You got all the time in the world,” Schlatt sighed, sinking lower into his own lap, picking the bare threads behind the seam of his Tshirt sleeve. His sentence drifted away as he conjured no further statement.

He tried to summon all the patience in his heart, he really did. Being opened up to was miles away from likely after just hours after their forced introductions. But he wasn’t getting much.

He put himself into his shoes, his position— curled into an unsteady, weak , exhausted mess on the bed of someone he’d never seen before.

The concept wasn’t too distant for Schlatt to grasp, met with familiarity and distant nostalgia.

His eyes filtered a fuzz around the edge of the carpet as he followed its path along the wall. The tips of his fingers tingled as he brought a hand up to rub away remaining moisture from under his chin.

“How long ‘s it been?”

Long pause.

“Since _what_?”

“Since you’ve been home.” Schlatt cupped his face in his palms.

At least his tipsiness failed to dilute his awareness as it would’ve to anyone with a lower tolerance of impairment. He was used to it, as he’d remarked.

And what he wished he wasn’t most acutely aware of was the tension in the air, the awkwardness of room.

Toby shrugged, tossing his head lazily to the side. “Few days.”

“Alright,” He turned his neck up and over to gesture endearingly to the other. 

Another pause, as he collected the words to spill from his aching throat. They congested just below his neck, bottled and seeping out, threatening his sense of composure.

“It’s a fucked situation—I know. I... you’re gonna be fine.”

Schlatt could physically see Tobys posture sink, his walls growing higher.

Toby didn’t say anything to that. 

“Do you know how long you’re staying here? Ah— did he tell you?”

Toby shook his head, slowly and ever-so slightly, no. He kept his eyes locked onto his knees in avoidance. He chewed on his chapped, pale lip, eyes lowered behind frizzy brown hair and eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

“He said a month at most.”

“Fine,” Tubbo sighed, as if he’d been chosen for. As if it was either of their choices, as if Schlatt had wanted this. 

He wasn’t equipped to process nor handle teen angst and attitude. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked anyloaded questions, despite the itch of wanting to interrogate him, piece together fragments of his life to paint the picture of _her_ in his mind.

His patience ran thin. But he knew how to put a filter on his tone.

“You’re tired, we don’t have to talk.” He pushed himself up from his knees, leaning over to pull open the drawer of the nightstand.

He looked over to the kid. He sat in a ball, arms crossed.

“Okay.” He muttered.

Schlatt held down the power button, glancing at the flatscreen as the display turned to life.

He navigated to the menu box where you could choose an application, tossing the remote lightly onto the bed between them. 

“Netflix. Cable. Hulu. Whatever, go crazy.”

Tobys eyes shifted to it, widening in curiosity. His weary hand slipped lower from its place on his upper arm as he uncertainly began moving to reach for it.

Schlatt smoothed down the wrinkles of his Tshirt and slugged to the edge of the doorframe. He leant on it, that way that grown men did. He grinded his teeth together, feeling the scratch of his gold tooth on his canine, watching Toby snatch the remote and analyze the buttons.

“Do you... know how to use it?” Schlatt intoned.

Toby scanned it, hitting the arrow dial and navigating to Netflix, satisfaction on his face. “‘mm, yeah.”

Schlatt watched the screen as the other blindly flipped through titles and pictures, slowly and unconfidently, as you’d explore an unfamiliar interface.

He crossed his arms, exhaling deeply with lowered eyes. 

It was like babysitting a dog. An angry one.

“...Kid.”

He waited for an acknowledgement of attention, getting none. Not even a glance.

“ _Toby_.”

“Yeah.” The boy just barely turned his head, with a passive aggressive tone.

Schlatt bit his tongue.

“The bathrooms across the hall. Shower if you need to.”

Toby nodded his head slightly, jaw jutted in lowness.

“Do you... need to eat?”

_Kids eat, yeah. They do._

Toby just shook his head no.

_Huh_. “Alright,” He looked around the room, distractedly. “If you need me I’m in the living room.”

A low and quiet hum in return.

Schlatt sighed, annoyed.

The room seemed the same from just hours before, other than the wrinkles of the comforter, still tucked into the box frame, and sunk in areas where he’d sat and where they were slept on.

The only thing atop the dresser was the worn backpack, full and unpacked, contents pushing through the tears on the seams.

Schlatt had never found the urge, growing up, unpacking his suitcase if he’d expected to be leaving soon after.

He pulled the door closed, turning and throwing his head back onto the same wall from before as the hum of the fan left and silence overtook him.

A shaky exhale quivered from his lips, as he slid to the left, back skimming all the way to the end. 

His feet pivoted as he pulled himself to the kitchen, plopping himself over the counter again. His forehead, warm from light intoxication, soothed by the coolness of the surface.

He stayed like that until the voices from the speaker of the television through the wall behind him stopped and were replaced by the chirp of crickets and honking.

He pulled his head up to scour the cabinets, before giving up and slouching to his room. He didn’t have much of an appetite.


	4. 4

At seven, Jason walked in on his sister in the moldy hallway bathroom, laying in the empty tub with a stick thing brought up between her lips, smoke blowing from her mouth into the congested air. It stunk the rest of that side of the house up for the next day or two.

At the beginning of middle school, he walked into the crowded restroom of his rickety public school to a few older boys frantically swatting away dustings of smoke dancing in the air and crushing something into the linoleum tile below with the soles of their shoes, avoiding eye contact with him until they realized he wasn’t a teacher. The smell was familiar.

Sometime the next semester, in the stuffed gymnasium of nonchalant students and overly enthusiastic guidance counselors, he learned what the smell was. That it would destroy his lungs, kill his brain, ruin his life. He was told to avoid it. He didn’t particularly plan on partaking in it anyways— But he’d known not to always take the word of adults to heart, and unlike a lot of his peers, his skepticism remained.

In sophomore year of high school, he joined the robotics club with the intent of meeting other boys in the same boat of drifting loneliness and social interest.

Amongst the room of few new members, he first exchanged introductions with an awkward, lanky kid, who had been just taller than him and shook his hand with cold, slender fingers. 

He had a dorky english accent that he slurred through a toothy, wired grin. He wore name brand turtleneck sweaters and 14 karat Movado watches, and shoved his frizzy brown hair into the same crochet knit beanie every day. They got along immensely well.

Schlatt remembered being ushered to the roof of the boys upper penthouse on the nicest side of Brooklyn. In the crisp coolness of the cusp of winter, he remembered the curiosity of the small air-tight container pulled out from the others backpack, and the pique of his interest when the boy took a lighter to a bundle of green bits rolled in paper. He brought it to his lips and inhaled, holding it in his mouth and bringing it up to Schlatt’s.

The burning of his lungs as he sucked and the heat trickling through his body was one of the most _sickeningly_ pleasant feelings he could name. 

——

“Pass the grinder, Schlatt?” 

He blinked, coming back to present and away from the stir of reminiscent thoughts.

“What?” Schlatt asked, he wasn’t paying attention.

“The grinder—“ Wilbur pointed at the glass of the modern coffee table to the cylindrical container to his right.

“Ah,” He slid it across the surface to Will, who caught it in one hand and opened the lid. He watched him pour green nuggets from a small matte bowl into it, closing it and twisting the lid. “I was daydreamin’.”

“‘Been doing that quite a bit these days, Schlatt—“ He smiled from his focus on his hands.

“I know. Stressed out. Lots to _reminisce_ on.”

Schlatt felt a dip of the couch beside him, heavy weight dropping into the cushion next to him suddenly.

The cause threw an arm atop the gold trim edge of the top of the couch, behind Schlatt’s head. He pushed his glasses up with the other. 

“Hello, Schlagg.”

“Yeah, Ted?”

Wilbur looked up at the two of them. “Twat, did you bring a few grams?”

Schlatt turned his head to look up at Ted. 

His face was clean shaven and the frame of his glasses sunk lower on his nose everytime he pushed them higher. He had that distinctive smirk consuming his face. He was taller, even sitting down. Maybe Schlatt needed to fix his posture.

“No, soy boy, I did not. How much do you have?”

“ _Enough_.” Wilbur tilted his head in thought, opening the canister. Completely ground crumbs of weed dusted the air as he pulled the lid away. “But you know, there could always be more. I have a few more bags.”

Ted brought his arm from behind Schlatt, lifting his hips and pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his khakis.

He flipped through cash, leaning forwards and throwing a 50 on the coffee table. “Here, i’ll pay for myself.”

Wilbur snarled his lip and furrowed his brows. He reached to swat the bill away. “That’s insulting. How _dare_ you think I need your money.”

Ted laughed heartily, leaning onto Schlatt. Schlatt scoffed, throwing his head back and releasing his crossed arms to grab onto Teds shoulder.

“Take it,” Ted smiled through chuckles. “You obviously need it, _look around_.”

Schlatt didn’t need to take his eyes away from Wilburs hands to know that he was far from needing it.

“You’re sitting on a meridian modern black velvet love seat with gold trim.”

“And it feels fake! Like suede. _Flea market suede_.”

Wilbur pulled a blunt wrap from a small box in front of him and laid it out onto the glass, small flecks of gold sheet sprawled through the underlying acrylic below.“Okay Ted. Still an intern?”

Schlatt wheezed under his breath as he brought a mojito glass to his lips, smiling around it.

“For a film production company, yes. Still unemployed, trust fund baby?”

Wilbur didn’t argue back to that one, tongue bit between his forced grin.

Will was a trust fund baby, Schlatt had to defend. 

His parents were rich, his father probably worked as an executive for a wall street company. But unlike other breedings of the wealthy, Wilbur wasn’t fed from a silver spoon of the _new economical era_ , recent earnings of 9 figures. He had grown up being chased by old house keepers through the suites of five star hotels his father had inherited, counting the expensive old porcelain heirlooms that lined pillars through his dim penthouses. His generational wealth wasn’t quite ancient, to Schlatt’s knowledge— Or Wilburs knowledge. But circa 1800s, he’d been under the impression of.

He didn’t take pride in having the simplest things handed to him. He’d taken the initial offer of his tuition payments after much hesitation—then reluctantly accepted anything given to him. The dependency he’d grown on seeing the notification for the monthly deposits into his bank statement ate him from the inside-out.

But he couldn’t get mad at his friends for making jabs at him for it. The jokes do get funny.

“ _Oi, wankah_ ,” A voice called from the kitchen, mocking the voice inflections of an exaggerated northern british accent. “Where are the cups?”

Wilbur hummed in thought. He scoffed, stammering from the confusion of the layout of his huge kitchen. 

“Third cabinet from the fridge!” Schlatt turned his head to yell behind him.

A crash of glasses and clattering of dishes from behind rang through his ears. “Thank you!”

Ted pulled away from the screen mantled into the wall just beside him after a few taps. Audio connected to the surround sound speakers above, translucent and upbeat melody washing through the entirety of the downstairs.

He hummed to the intro of some Glass Animals song, drumming his fingers on his knee as Wilbur reached across the coffee table to hand him a blunt. He took it warmly.

_Will hated rolling_ , Schlatt knew. The least he could do was take over.

He sunk forwards and lowered himself to his knees on the floor. He shuffled on the black rug to reach for the bowl and a box of a bulk supply of blunt wraps, sitting on his ass.

Glancing up at Wilburs sigh of relief, Schlatt blinked at his appreciative grin. Brat.

He poured the green from the canister directly into the opened wrap, unfocused and confident in his muscle memory to direct his hands as he watched the TV.

The weight and scuff of clothes on the fabric of the couch shifted to his back as someone sat, legs placed on either sides of his arms. 

“Wanna sip, Schlatt?” He held a tumbler glass beside Schlatt’s ear and swirled it, ice rattling in a liquid.

“What is it?”

Alex slurped from the edge of the glass, exhaling in refreshment. “ _Vodka and Coke_.”

Wilbur grinned, snarling. “Thats putrid.”

Schlatt wheezed, bringing the tucked blunt to his lips and running his tongue along the inside of the wrap before closing it. 

“It’s amazing.” Alex laughed.

“Lighter?” Schlatt looked up at Ted, who took the glass from Alex’s hand, blunt in his own. Having a long sip with a scrunch of his face from the burn, he gestured at the table corner closest to him.

Wilbur dived for it, happily flicking the small flame on and holding it up for Schlatt to run it along the seam of the joint. That was the part he liked.

Schlatt held the end to the flame, lighting it and bringing it to his mouth. He blew on the hot shaft to cool it from its welding before sticking it between his lips and taking a long drag.

There was that burn that he’d loved. It was a singe in his throat as he held it in his mouth and the satisfaction of letting it pour down into his chest. 

The clarity as he pushed every stray ounce of smoke out of his lungs sent him into ecstasy.

He turned it over and leant over the table, Wilbur wrapping his cold fingers around his wrist and taking a long hit. He watched the orange glow eat at the end and singe off as he inhaled.

“This is good,” Schlatt sighed in sweet release, handing it to him. “Is this a different guy?”

“Yes, this computer science major at the other college. Nick— I think.” Will stood, dropping sloppily onto the loveseat behind him.

Ted leaned down, elbows on his knees as he hovered close to Schlatt’s head. 

He blew a long stream of smoke directly onto Schlatt’s ear, wrapping around his jaw and blanketing his face.

Schlatt just closed his eyes and jutted his jaw in playful annoyance. 

Ted reached past him and picked up the glass bottle that Schlatt had forgotten about. 

“ _So Schlatt_ ,” He took a long, exaggerated sip. “Wilbur told me about your little situation.”

Schlatt kept his attention low, beginning to pack green florets into a small glass pipe. “Which situation?” He drifted.

Alex hovered above Schlatt from behind, grabbing the lighter from in front of him and sitting back down, elbows resting on Schlatt’s shoulders as he fiddled with the wheel above his face. 

He brought it down, arms around Schlatt’s neck as the glass pipe was brought to the others mouth.

“The new one.” Ted nodded matter of factly. 

Schlatt took a long inhale from the pipe as Alex held the flame to the bottom, heating the ground weed.

He hummed in thought, eyebrows furrowed in unfiltered ponder. Smoke spilled from his mouth as he returned. “You gotta be specific, man.”

“Schlatt, it’s only been a week since you told me that it was the biggest plot twist of your life.” Wilbur shook his head in lighthearted disapproval.

“...” His face unfolded in realization. “Oh shit! Oh yeah—“

“I’m absolutely dumbfounded, how you’d had to think about it so hard.” Ted stared at him blankly, shaking his head.

“Y’know, i’m only human. I got a whole ‘lotta shit goin’ on.” Schlatt threw his head up in nonchalance.

Wilbur stretched, long limbs sprawling across the length his sofa. “Well how’s that been?”

Pretty shitty, he thought. You know what, it could be worse. 

He clicked his tongue. “Eh, I don’t know. Nothing really’s changed.”

“Nothings changed?” Will skewed his eyes in question.

Schlatt held his hand out with a hum, Alex handing the lighter. He stood up, stumbling to his feet as he shuffled around the coffee table.

“He’s quiet. Like— _so quiet_ that when he does make noise I think someone broke in.” He dropped next to Wilbur, neck resting on the others forearm stretched across the top of the backrest.

“I guess I can see that.” Alex shrugged, taking another sip of his drink and wincing at the burn.

He brought the pipe to his lips. “It’s been like six days and I think the only times i’ve talked to him was to give him shampoo and that I was leaving for work.” 

He took another long hit.

Will chewed his lip, tapping the blunt on his knee. “I guess you can’t really force him to open up to you.”

“Have you tried talking to him?” Ted asked, drinking from Alex’s tumbler again.

He tapped his fingers on the armrest.

“...Am I supposed to?”

“ _Dude_.” 

“Schlatt—“

“What the fuck—“

“ _What_?” Schlatt threw his hand up, wrist cocked in defense. “Why _shouldn’t_ I give ‘m space?”

Wilbur rubbed his chin, sighing and dropping his hand into his lap. “I mean yeah you should but y’know... don’t just ignore him.”

_“I don’t_ ,” Schlatt turned his head up, 

towards Will. “I don’t ignore him— when we do talk he’s just... short. Quiet.”

“Do you give him a reason to be?” Alex brought his legs onto the couch cushion and hugged his knees.

“No,” Schlatt slurred. “I don’t think so. I try to be... accommodating. He just seems _angry_. So I don’t really care.”

“You should.”

Ted hummed in obligate agreement.

His face scrunched, hands thrown up. “Is everyone here suddenly a _child psychologist?_ Tell me, tell me—“

“Well at least try to... comfort him or something.” Wilbur pushed up to his feet from his knees, blowing smoke upwards. “Don’t just be the alcoholic that has custody of him and gives him a bed. I think he’s had enough of that.” 

The clouding of his mind faded into definition, making it easier to ignore the fumbly shift of Teds eyes to Alex’s, slightly raising his eyebrows in a private agreeance.

Schlatt stared off again, lighting the bowl of the pipe and inhaling.

_Maybe_.

Will mindlessly hovered in the kitchen, throwing glasses emptied of liquor and bowls into his sleek, edged sink.

“Where is he now?” Ted pressed the lit endof his finished blunt into the bottom of the bowl, burning it out. 

“Home.”

Everyone stressfully rubbed their faces, choking with no words to push out.

“Jason Schlatt, you _fucking_ piece of shit!” Wilbur yelled from the kitchen.

_ Okay. He’ll try. _

“Fine! I’ll apologize or _something_. I’ll make an effort.”

A song ended, tempo fading into the silence that was cut by a honk. 

The slam of a car door.

“Who’s here, Will?” Alex hollered from the couch, groggy head turned to the kitchen behind them.

“I don’t know—“ He threw the remains of his first blunt down the disposal, swiping crumbs of food from the counter into his cupped palm.

There was the creak of the front door, faint cut of distant car honking and cricket chirping ending as it shut.

Teds face lit up. “Oh shit, I invited her!”

“Invited who?”

The click of heeled pumps echoed down the entryway.

“ _You didn’t_.” Schlatt dropped his head in anguish.

“I did.”

“You invited the broad!”

Alex laughed into the velvet exterior of the sofa.

The clack of steps inched louder, closer to the archway of the opened living area.

“ _Rebecca_?” Wilbur called, undertone of a sigh, swiping his hands into the trash.

The halt of red pumps, crossing as they came to view. Skinny black jeans sauntered up to the thin of her waist, open from the off shoulder top nearly covered by long, messy, faded violet hair.

She grinned, clutching a big purse to her side.

“Hello, pussies.”

Schlatt sighed, tongue released from the vice grip of his teeth. 

“Hey, Minx.”


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but sweet chapter. small but necessary. i was very eager to push it out because the plot is gonna be starting soon and i have a very anticipated surprise in the next two chapters:'0

Warm air dusted away the bumps across Schlatt’s skin and neck as he stepped through his door, the chill of the evening cut from its flow inside as he shut the door.

He threw his keys onto the narrow table at the entrance and dropped his book bag carelessly on the floor.

Schlatt had never needed to spend all day at work. He worked by appointment and commission, and could usually do projects from the desktop in his room. When he did go into the office it was for three hours and he was out.

He dragged himself towards the kitchen, kicking off his shoes and shimmying the jacket off of his shoulders, throwing it onto the counter.

Yawning, he raised his arms and stretched out the stiffness in his back. He pulled opened the bottom drawer of the freezer.

He stocked up on a few gallon sized tubs of ice cream every few shopping trips. He’d polish them off himself, or with Wilbur, or he wouldn’t remember eating some until he’d seen the empty carton spilled out onto the carpet on achey Monday mornings.

And today— today was an achey day. Being called into work for 10 hours the morning after getting crossfaded wasn’t his _favorite_ phone call to receive.

“Vanilla. Vanilla vanilla—” He repeated to himself, turning cartons to read the labels. “— _Vanilla_.”

He swiped away frostings of ice that had chilled his hands from the layer of collected freezer burn, picking it up and holding it to his chest. 

He grabbed a spoon, fiddling with the lid as he stumbled to the living room. Bowls are for betas, as he’d always retaliated to questioning.

Dropping into the textured leather of his couch and melting into the cushiony abyss, he stuck the spoon into the tub—

A sniffle, across the living room.

His eyes darted to one of the chairs ahead of him, beside the coffee table.

Toby sat in a a heap in the seat, legs crossed onto each other and covered with over sized ankle socks that the bottom of his feet shown through.

He wore a wrinkled Tee with faded print, that draped over his thin arms. Light shadowed on his slouched back where his ribs laid. 

He averted his gaze from Schlatt, fiddling his fingers as he studied the floor.

_ Oh, he’s out of the room. _

Schlatt halted his jab in the spoon. 

“...Hey, kid.”

Toby looked up, hesitant. “Hi, Mr. Jason.”

Sitting up, Schlatt ran a hand through his hair. “God, please don’t call me that. I feel so old.”

“...Then what do I call you?” Tobys voice was low, uncertain.

“Schlatt.”

“Okay. Mr. Schlatt.”

_ Jesus— _

“No, I m— y’know what, sure. That’s fine, whatever you want.” He set the tub from his lap onto the coffee table, leaving the spoon sticking up from it.

He rubbed his palms over the wet spots of condensation left in a ring on the denim of his right thigh.

He glanced at his wrist watch, matte black interior with brown leather bands.

_7:24_. 

“What’ve you been doing all day?” Schlatt asked, looking up at the boy expectantly.

Toby ran his petite hand along the back of his neck, fingers tangle in the mess of brown hair collecting in the nape. He hummed in thought. 

“I... showered. I watched a movie— a few movies. I slept. ‘n I sat out here. And now i’m talking to you.” He looked down, speaking in a small, slow tone.

“... _That’s it_?” Schlatt’s lips pulled at a corner in a questioning graze, eyebrows furrowed in lighthearted concern. “—Is that what you do all day when i’m not here?” 

_That sounds so boring_. Schlatt thought. Well, there’s not much else to do here. Alone. Most of Schlatts time was spent out with friends or locked away to do work.

It then ran through his mind, that out of their first week, Toby had spent most of it by himself. 

Schlatt felt a tinge of guilt crawl up his back as Toby nodded.

The boys scolded him for it. Minx told him to apologize. And although he hated abiding by remarks made towards his own life, maybe they were right. 

It was a rarity, even he had known, for him to apologize. 

He sighed. 

“Sorry for leaving you alone last night. ‘N never being here. I’m gonna try to be.” He scratched at the frill at the cuff of his white button up, bunched above his elbows. 

Toby had a turn in his eyes of confusion, cluelessness. Like he didn’t _understand_ what Schlatt hadn’t meant, or tried to read beyond the exterior of his words.

“It’s okay.” Toby attested lightly.

“What? No,” Schlatt shook his head.

As he was lectured, being absent was inconsiderate, unsafe, and just plain shitty. And he knew it, before he’d been told so, as he was, and especially during the sleepless hours after. 

“—I shouldn’t be leaving you by yourself.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.” Toby beckoned tiredly, ruling off what he thought to be the _undesirable_ and _unnecessary_. 

_He didn’t know any different_ , Schlatt assumed.

“I don’t care. I want to.” He pushed his sleeves higher up above his forearms, looking away. 

Toby nodded timidly in response, not knowing what else to say. His face had brightened in thought, nonetheless.

Schlatt was surprised to be receiving genuine remarks, a step up from a simple hum met between their shallow conversations. It was weird, it gave him a weird feeling in his chest.

“...You haven’t eaten today?” He broke the minute of shared silence.

“I had a few oreos.”

“That’s it? Did you look for more food?”

He shook his head no, biting his cheek.

“There’s more than snacks, y’know. You can go get something, I don’t care.”

“No. I actually ate all the oreos. Half yesterday and half today. I had the whole thing. ‘M sorry.”

Schlatt clicked his tongue. 

“It’s okay.” Fuck, those were limited edition oreos. “Are you hungry?”

Toby looked down. He shook his head again.

Yeah, there was no way his stomach was fulfilled from 30 oreos. Schlatt knew, oh he knew.

“You’re not hungry.” He stated, interrogational. 

Toby looked at him and waved a hand in the air, as to say, _of course not. I’m all good._

Schlatt saw the gentle twitch of his eyes, to the tub of icecream on the table across from him.

“...So you don’t want any icecream?”

Toby looked up at him, longingly, conflictedly.

“It’s okay. I have like, four more big tubs.” Schlatt stood, lifting the carton from the rim and leaning over the table to hand it to Toby.

Toby took it hesitantly, face brushed with excitement. He took the spoon into his small hands, scooping the cool slush of melted cream on top and taking it to his mouth.

Schlatt walked around the couch and grabbed his coat from the counter. He looked over to the living room. 

“I’m gonna shower ‘n shit. Don’t eat that whole thing, you’ll get sick.”

Toby looked up at him from his hunch over the tub, cheeks stuffed with vanilla and spoon hanging from his mouth. He gave a thumbs up, swallowing.

And through cold teeth, he smiled timidly. 

It was different from the other half-baked, artificial grins he’d seen once or twice. The small, cold ones that were forced from the boy as a polite, thanking acknowledgement.

This was warm. It was a dorky, innocent smile that was a window into his endearment. It hit Schlatt different, injecting more of that warm stir in his chest.

It was _genuine_. Real. 

_ Huh. Weird. _


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> minx content👩❤️💋👨 gonna try to get the next update out soon

Schlatt had learned a few things about Toby, in the week he’d been watching over him— of which he’d taken a few mental notes.

1\. He likes his personal space.

The boy made points to sit alone whether it be on one of the isolated accent chairs on the other side of the coffee table as opposed to the sofa, or on the opposite end of the kitchen island to eat.

In the late mornings, when he and Schlatt intersected in the dim hallway, he always completely stepped out of the way, or waited in the frame of his door to Schlatt to pass first, to avoid brushing past the other or coming close to it.

It wasn’t from a place of wanting to be alone. He began spending time outside of the guest room, watching TV in the living room instead. More so an effort to avoid physicality.

The two had never broke the mutual barrier of comfortable distance. Schlatt was fine with that.

2\. He’s unexpectedly independent.

Schlatt made an effort to be present more.He didn’t go out everyday. He didn’t spend his moments home locked away in his room. But of course, he did get called into his office as much as an employed adult would.

Yet Toby didn’t mind being by himself, on the _occasion_ that he was. He always found things to be entertained by. Schlatt remembered coming home to him balancing two forks on the edge of a bowl. He’d said that he’d been at it for half an hour.

Although he had been transfixed with the interface of the Netflix homepage, he didn’t have near close to an issue with flipping through cable. 

He asked Schlatt if he could wash his clothes, to a surprised, ‘ _Yeah, kid. Of course_.’ And he did it by himself. Pretty damn efficiently, too—efficient as could be with five shirts and three pairs of pants.

He always cleaned up after himself. He swiped crumbs off of the counter when he walked by. He wordlessly put his forks in the dishwasher. He pushed the stools back into place once they shifted out from under the counter. It was helpful, and taken warmly.

But it made Schlatt sad. That from small gestures noticed from across the room done with no hesitation, no intent other than from the notion that it was something that he hadn’t known otherwise, he saw the mannerisms of a boy who’d been forced to grow up too fast, who’d adapted to make do with what he had and take after himself. He was all too familiar with the feeling.

3\. He has strange eating habits.

They were strange, per say. Just something that would turn a head or two, having noticed small consistencies of the days.

Toby loved oreos. Cookies. Icecream. Completely normal. But old, stale snacks were all Schlatt walked in on him eating, on the scarce occasion he was. 

Tobys wrists were still thin, and the divets of his ribs were visible from the back of his shirt when he slouched. He didn’t eat much. 

He felt no initiative to eat more until Schlatt presently asked him if he’d want something else. It was worrisome, but not enough to be an issue. 

After skimming through the cabinets with Toby, who only showed interest in the old cup of ramen that had never been thrown out, Schlatt had come to the realization that he had absolute shit food in his house. Or at the least, nearly none that wasn’t pulled from the end of his cupboards to be forgotten, or none that would qualify as what you’d feed a teenager.

“—Schlatt, do you want chicken nuggets or tenders?”

“...Theres no difference.”

Minx held two bags in either hand, skimming over the label of one. “There’s a _big_ difference.”

“They’re just different shapes.” He scowled at her, only minimally sarcastic. “One is longer. One is shorter. It’s the same thing.”

She turned them, facing the front of the bags towards him. “The experience of eating each is completely different.”

Schlatt readjusted his elbows on the handle of the shopping cart, raising one hand to rest his chin on a palm and sighing. 

“Please, please. _Elaborate_. Explain your reasoning. I beg you.”

“Tenders are so much better.”

“How?” He shook his head, dumbfounded.

“The shape makes the process more pleasant.”

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Then get the tenders.”

“But there’s more nuggets in a bag than tenders.”

Schlatt stretched a long arm and aggressively knocked both bags from her hands and into the crowded bed of the cart.

She smiled, the same smug, careless sheen on her face as she swung shut the clear freezer door and rubbed melted ice frostings off onto the thighs of her linen pants.

He pushed the cart down the aisle slowly, slouched over the knuckles whitened by his grip on the handle. 

The whir of the wheels mixed with the mellowed music echoed through high speakers misted melancholy in his head. It was deafening.

Schlatt himself, had no idea what the contents of a plentiful kitchen were. If shopping for his needs and solely his own, he wouldn’t be pressed to buy more than what he wanted to snack on. He routinely ate dinner at Wilburs, went out at a sit down restaurant with a few friends, postmated food, or just didn’t eat. He was in his early twenties, living alone.

He craned his neck to the side to look at her from over his shoulder. “Grab me some icecream.”

She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow up at him. 

“You’re still on that?” She called from behind. “ _Christ_ , Schlatt, you’re lucky you’re not diabetic.”

He slowed, staring at his feet as he inched down the aisle. His hatred for shopping had never faltered. 

“You’re built like a goddamn diabetic.” He muttered loud enough for her to hear. 

She stacked two tubs of vanilla icecream on top of eachother, swinging the door closed with a bump of her hip and balancing the two hugged close to her chest. They reached just to her chin, under her tilted head. 

She brought them to him, Schlatt stepping towards her to lift them from her hands and take them into his own, setting them in the cart. “Vanilla?”

“Yes.” She replied. “Always ‘ve been a fiend for the shit. I remembered.”

She kept mindful of a lot of stuff. A lot of things seemed insignificant for others to remember, yet she did have a tendency of raising his bar of already low expectations.

She took the barred handle, red painted nails wrapped around its width as she pushed forward. “Do you have stuff to cook? You need stuff for you to cook.”

_I’d rather do quite anything than cook_ , he wanted to say.

“What would I even make?” He strided shallowly beside her, rubbing his hands along the chilled bumps across his forearms.

She leaned, turning the corner and pushing into the next aisle. 

The height of her raised sandals brought her just closer to his height, clattering on the polished concrete below.

“I don’t know, motherfucker. But you and him can’t just eat frozen food and chips forever.” 

She gestured to the bed of the metal frame cart, and the mess of frost bitten bags and boxes, the largest sized bags possible of chips, and packages of ramen. 

She was right. He’d known that her insight would have been, had he’d asked her instead of going alone, or taking Wilbur, who solely had wagyu steak delivered to his house. And she also had a car. It didn’t take much convincing to ask her to help him— But he’d never tell her that.

“That’s what I already do. And look how I turned out.” He clicked his tongue, upturn in his voice laced with sarcasm, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Minx stopped, waving a hand down as a gesture for him to stop walking.

He straightened as she stepped back and ran her gaze down the length of his body, study running down his shoulders, all the way to his shoes and back up.

She choked on a laugh, pushing the cart farther down the aisle. “Even more reason to get more to stop eating shit.”

They scuffed into the deli section, air fading deeper into coolness as they approached the refrigerated shelves.

He followed behind her, biting the inner flesh of his cheek. “—Alright. Just throw stuff in, I’ll figure out what to do with it.”

“You trust my judgement?” She glanced back at him, stopping in front of the wall of packaged raw steak and poultry. “That’s sweet. Your transaction statement is at stake. In my hands.”

“You’re not gonna blow my money because i’ll kick your shins in.” He kept his gaze away from her. They didn’t make eye contact often, arranged dynamic of mostly one-sides passive comments and insults needing no more.

“Do you like ground beef? You should always have some ground beef.” 

She never did retaliate with his remarks, content in their linger.

She threw two packages into the cart.

“I could just postmate food.” Schlatt scratched the underside of his chin. “Seems a whole lot easier.”

She tugged on the cart, Schlatt rolling forward with her pull.

“You’re a grown adult, you need to learn to survive on your own. _Without_ ordering shit to your doorstep.” She looked over different cuts of raw chicken.

“Never been one for cooking.” He bent low to press his forehead onto his forearms, resting on the handle. 

“You can,” she picked up another pack of chicken thighs, inspecting it and placing it back down. “You just choose not to.”

He raised his head up from the slow slump. He glared at her questioningly.

She looked up and back at him. 

“Y’know, believe it or not, you’re pretty _domestic_.” She tugged on the cart again, ushering him to follow farther.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

She scanned across a display table of pastries.

“It means you do right as a family man— cooking, cleaning.” She tossed a box of cookies into the cart, moving onto the next table.

“Like hell.” He scowled, calling from two displays down. “Don’t insult me again.”

“I’m serious,” She picked up two packages, reading both. “Not a bad thing at all, though.”

He rubbed the taper of his hair, grown slightly down the back of his neck. 

He didn’t know how or if he’d take that to heart, at least as something with a positive connotation. Being told that he was anymore than what he thought himself to be was deemed in his head, untrue. Spoken from words of fake flattery.

And a comparison to something he’d had no familiarity in, no interest in pursuing seemed far out of grasp.

Minx threw a box of muffins at him, caught with reflexive arms snapped out of thought. The hum of the music flooded back into his ears, light chatter and beeping across the store.

“You’re very distracted.” She placed a hand on her hip, blowing a strand of violet hair from her face. 

_ Yeah. He was. _

“So I’ve heard. ‘ve been.”

“Why?” Minx pulled the cart again.

“I don’t know. A lot of new developments ‘n shit.” He followed, pushing the cart along with her and nearing the cusp of the bakery. He ran a loose hand through his hair.

She looked over packages of artesano loafs.

“Get wonder bread, i’m not an animal.” He waved a hand dismissively. He loved wonder bread.

She exhaled sharply, lowering her eyes at him and reaching for the lower shelf. 

“Is poor baby Schlatt overwhelmed?” She sneered, tossing a sack at him.

_ Yes. But no. _

“Shut up. I’m fine, i’m great.” He shook his head in denial. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” Minx ventured to say. She knew better than to push. 

She held his bicep just above his elbow, statured in as he pushed the cart tiredly. Her arm tucked in the nook of his hoodie sleeve as they walked beside each other.

He wasn’t fond of physical contact. He usually brushed off small increments of affection, never initiated hugs. Unless it was from, dare he say, people he cared for. There wasn’t many of those. 

He didn’t care to shrug her off, not that she’d be compliant. They had a strange relationship of small, unnoticed lingering acts of endearment.

The music rang his ears. His eyes grew heavy from the acoustics of the intercom, the roll of small wheels, scattered steps. 

Minx let go. “What does he like to eat?”

Schlatt yawned. “He likes oreos ‘n shit. Took down my carrot cake pack in a day.”

She tilted her head at him, straightening her lips in question. “Have you been feeding him straight shit for nearly two weeks? Tell me you haven’t.”

_Ah, jeez_. 

“Does it have to be the truth?” He scratched his stubbled chin. 

“You can’t just feed him oreos.”

“If it makes you feel better he had ice cream too.”

“You’re gonna give him diabetes. Or a heart attack. Or an _aneurysm_.”

“I don’t know if you know what an aneurysm is.”

“Schlatt,” She ran a hand through her hair. 

He’d already known, he’d already felt guilty for risking the kids chance at getting stomach ulcers before tenth grade. But he wanted him to do what he wanted— eat junk, watch TV, go to sleep whenever. Schlatt didn’t care. He seemed like he needed it.

“Why do you think we’re here? We’re getting food.” He raised a hand and gestured widely around them. 

It _was_ why they were there. It was why he was at a Walmart half an hour away instead of getting six club sandwiches from the bodega across the block to last the week.

“—You know for a fact I wouldn’t be caught dead buying...” He scanned the contents of the cart. “Bell peppers. Or orange juice. My diet consists of bourbon and roast beef.”

He reached for a box of pancake mix on the top shelf to his right. 

“Disgusting diet. How are you gonna grow big and tall?” She mocked.

He picked at his nails. “When are you gonna get shorter and thinner? You’re like a man baby.”

She sighed, face lightening. Her hands were thrown defensively, as she stifled a grin.

“Y’know what, I’m glad you care. I wouldn’t ‘a expected you to.”

“ _Thanks_.” He blanked, pushing the cart onward.

“—I figure you wouldn’t really think about it, I mean. Or know what real people eat. I’m glad you had the sense to take me— _ooo_ , can I get these for myself?” She grabbed a small box of pop tarts.

_He didn’t have anyone else in mind to call,_ as he’d tried not to admit to himself.

“And you have a car, toots. I’m not lugging groceries in a cab.” He grabbed the box from her and dropped it into the cart.

She picked up the iced coffee, nudged in the corner of the elevated seat in the cart that she’d made Schlatt drive them for on the way. 

She sipped from the straw. Schlatt tilted his head towards her as she raised it to his lips. “How is he— Is it still tense, ‘n shit?”

He swallowed, grimacing. That was sickeningly sweet.

“It’s not awkward anymore. I think.”

“He’s opening up to you?” Minx nodded, pleased.

They stopped beside the wall of boxed cake mix packages.

“Yeah. We acknowledge each other, actually.” He skimmed through the selection, eyes scanning low. “At first... he was really quiet.”

She shook the plastic cup, swiveling ice to sip the remains of the coffee. 

“I wouldn’t think otherwise.” 

“Like— _angry_. He seemed angry. At me.” He was met with a small hum in acknowledgment. “‘N the way he acted, the way he talked...”

He picked a pack of double chocolate fudge cake mix.

“I don’t know. It was like he thought that he was a chore.”

She stood in close to him, scanning the wall. Their shoulders hovered near each other as she held an inquisitive finger over her chin.

“It’s okay. Just be accommodating— _It’s half off, get another one._ ” She picked a box of red velvet mix.

He took it, turning and dropped the two into the cart. 

“It’s rough.”

She lingered behind him, slowly striding with the click of her steps as she conjured a statement.

A long pause. He couldn’t expect something he hadn’t heard before. A simple, ‘I think it’ll be fine.’

He mindlessly stopped to wait for her to catch up, not turning around. His head hung low.

“Y’know those stories that Will would tell us, of you when you two were young?”

A sort of stir took over his stomach, of question and reminiscence. 

“Yeah.” He sighed. His gaze kept to the glossy floor, scuffed and scratched from use.

“How you would deny a cup of water when you’d gone over— _even though you were dying of thirst_.” She bent down, dropping to a kneel as she looked over boxes of something.

He did do that. He didn’t know why.

“‘N how some kid was gettin’ in his face, someone texted you and you ran across campus,” She exhaled, laughing. “And they couldn’t pull you off the poor kid.”

It was a fun memory from the rush of adrenaline, how cool it felt to show off the scar healing from his split eyebrow and the bruises darkening his ribs. 

But he remembered the struggle of being dragged off of a weeping pile dripped with blood, screams piercing his over sensitive ears. He remembered the angry, grateful squeeze of lanky arms he’d ignored while waiting outside the principals office to await suspension.

“You didn’t let anyone touch you, you didn’t even take an ice pack.” She shook her head. She was met with a blank answer. 

The music above switched to the next song as a stir twisted lightly in his stomach.

“Yeah.”

“When he met you you didn’t know how to pick up girls... Or cook pancakes. _Or shave._ But you were still independent, he had to fight with you to teach you how.”

She grabbed something and held it, coming up to stand straight. 

“I don’t know. It’s cool, people who have to learn how to make do on their own—learn about the world by their own judgement. How they turn out from not being babied into shit.”

Schlatt furrowed his eyebrows. He fiddled with the loose bar on the handle. He felt like he was being read like a book.

“Yeah.” He blanked, in quiet response again.

Her foot steps came close to him, clattering nearer and nearer from behind as she came around to the side of the cart, holding two packs of oreos.

“People like that end up the best. Taking care of themselves, it makes ‘em self-reliant.” She rearranged a few items that had piled messily, nearly spilling over the edge. “And they like to take care of other people.”

He brought his head up, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know how you’re pulling this shit out of your ass.”

She kept pulling out boxes dented by weight and stacking them, focused. “I’m saying that you’re good for him. That I don’t think anyone else could do better than you. And that no matter how much credit, or masculinity you wanna title yourself with, you _are_ —“

“What am I?” He slurred impatiently, tiredly.

She hummed. “Pretty domestic.”

They made eye contact, deepened, a moment of sincerity that they rarely shared those days.

He felt his eyes soften, as he chewed his tongue in thought.

He watched her lips crack into a smile. She turned, gaze lingering as she looked over her shoulder. 

“Let’s go check out.” She strided ahead, waving a hand towards the front of the store.

The start of his feet delayed, as he lowered his eyes indolently.

He sighed, pushing the heavy cart and following her.


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade joined the game

** Message: wanker **

_ 2:04pm _

i’m omw 

had to get my car from the garage

are you good man

wanker: Yes

wanker: Just stressed out mmmmmmmm

wanker: Can you get me coffee

yeah

pistachio latte?

wanker: Me as a drink

wanker: Thank you

wanker: Come quick i’m going feral

did you get a girl pregnant?

wanker: Which girl?

wanker: Ok i’m kidding i don’t think i have

i’m in the drive thru

i’m using ur debit card

wanker: Why do you have my debit card

wanker: Ok get something pretty for yourself too

i already did

_ 2:11pm _

wanker: I have people over btw

wanker: just walk in

when have i ever knocked on ur door

ok 

pulling in

Schlatt shut his phone off, dropping it into his lap.

He rolled down his window as he came to a slow, approaching the call box and reaching out an arm. The code was muscle memory, at that point—he’s punched it in weekly for years.

The beeps of the digits cut through the mellow song he mumbled along with, as he peered through the bars of the tall gate, rustling and turning open.

He wasn’t in as much of a rush as he was told to pick up, he knew when Wilbur was being irritably needy and when things actually warranted urgency. There was a difference.

He slowed through, past a corner of overgrown hedge and through the long paved path leading to the driveway. 

Pulling in, he stopped before the scatter of unfamiliar cars parked in front of the property.

“What the fu...” 

Two women unpacked vacuum cleaners from the trunk of a van, as another struggled to drag a heaping trash bag through the double door.

A few people were cutting away at the calamity of overgrowth crawling into the walkway, picking at remaining weeds sprouting from between concrete pavement.

_What is he doing now,_ he thought. _It was always something._

He looked around quizzically, parking and grabbing the cup of coffee and small paper bag from his order, shoving his keys and phone into the pockets of his slacks.

Swinging the door shut, the calm of his music was cut as the car beeped off, 

Trudging up from the curb, he stepped out of the way of a woman frantically calling for another, around the collection of muck filled mop buckets in front of the glass floor-to-ceiling windows.

Schlatt could see Wilbur inside, accommodatingly talking to another and pointing them to the direction of some other room.

He looked just as weary as ever, through the new creases under his eyes and especially undone hair.

Schlatt walked up the few steps, bending to help the woman pull the trash bag through the door with a free hand. A _thank you_ , and a distracted nod in response as he walked in past her.

The granite floors were shiny enough to reflect the bottom of his shoes. The rugs ahead leading down the hallway of the bedrooms were being vacuumed and scrubbed, as one person stood on a ladder, wiping built up dust from the line of chandeliers above.

He turned the corner, walking into the kitchen and setting the coffee down on the polished marble countertop, damp from being scrubbed down. 

“Will.” 

The other turned on his heel, brightening when he saw Schlatt. He came over and leant on the other side of the counter. “Hi Schlatt. What took you so long?”

“You called me in right when I got home, and I pulled my ass here in _fifteen_ minutes.” Schlatt threw a hand up defensively.

Wilbur looked up at him through dark bags. “Thank you. Is this mine?” He grabbed the latte, holding it lazily from the lid and sipping desperately.

Schlatt figured that it wasn’t much of an emergency, or he would’ve rushed had he not have been asked to get coffee. He pulled a chocolate croissant from the paper bag and shoved the end into his mouth.

He bit off a chunk and placed it back onto the wrapper, sliding it across to Wilbur. “Here. You look like shit.”

God, maybe he was domestic.

“Thanks.” Wilbur sheened, either to the croissant or to the remark. It could’ve been both. “Feel like it, too.”

He spoke over the chatter of direction and loud hum of vacuuming in the living room. “Will, what the hell is all this?”

Wilbur swirled the cup around and popped the lid open. “They’re cleaning the house.”

“ _No shit_ , they’re cleaning the house, _why_ are they cleaning the house? Since when have you brought in a squadron of housekeepers on a Wednesday afternoon to fluff your pillows?” 

“They fluffed my pillows?” Will turned excitedly toward the living room. “Wow, they actually did.”

Schlatt crossed his arms, sighing as Wilbur turned back and tipped the cup over into his mouth, chugging the rest.

He wiped foam from his lips onto the sleeve of his crew neck. 

“‘m sorry. I’m on six aspirins.” He set the empty paper cup down and took the croissant. “My brother’s coming.”

_ Oh. That’s why he seems terrified.  _

“Really?” Schlatt replied, “He’s coming when?”

Will put his head down. “Today. An hour, or something.”

A short lady came up to them, pulling rubber gloves from her wrists with a snap. 

“Mr. Soot, my girls are done. The gardeners are finishing up, we’re going to leave.”

He sprung up happily, “Great, thank you, my dear. I’ll wire the money over in a little.” 

He leant to hug her, the two kissing each other on the cheek the way that adults do as an endearing farewell.

A few more women made haste out of the few extensions of the house, bringing along their rags and their brooms, towards the front door.

“Thank you girls! Bye Karla!” He called after them, to a few amused laughs and farewells.

The way that Wilbur talked to people was always something Schlatt found foreign. So pretentiously, so indecipherably did he fix himself in the presence of people in the relation of business. He knew it was a facade to some, and a nicety to others. But it’s been like that since they were fourteen.

He bent down, head resting into his palms as he waited for Wilbur to wave the women away.

“Wilbur.”

“Ah, yes, ‘m sorry.” He ran a hand through frizzy hair sitting across his forehead. “Yes, Dave is coming. He’s coming today. That’s why I’m— _had people_ clean.”

“You don’t need to do that.” Schlatt shook his head.

Wilbur stuffed the rest of the croissant lazily into his mouth, chewing slowly with a slacked jaw, as the front door slammed closed and new silence overtook them.

“Yes I do.”

Schlatt didn’t meet him with a response as quickly as he’d of liked. 

“You don’t have anything to prove to him, that’s bullshit. No you don’t.”

Wilbur stared off, chewing, before blinking hard and snatching the wrapper from the counter, crumbling it into his fist.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t, should I?” He grinned indifferently at Schlatt, walking around opposite of him to the trash bin.

Wilbur is a calm guy. He’s laidback, he’s a flirt, the epicenter of a party, he’s giddy, he’s a conversationalist. Everything about him complimented the jagged edges of whom he stood beside.

He grew from everything, never knowing of struggle and never caring to find it.

It was cultivating, how strange it felt to see someone so big, someone with no worry, no issues, no responsibility, to suddenly become a quivering mess of dramatics.

Schlatt sighed, blowing a tuft of hair up from his eyes.

“Will, you’re fine. Just chill.”

“I’m chill.” The other assured, knuckles whitening with his grip on the handle of his fridge, swung open. 

_ He’s not chill. _

Wilburs phone buzzed continuously from the corner of the counter across from Schlatt.

“That’s your phone.”

“Who is it?”

Schlatt picked it up, turning it over to see the screen, reading the contact name of the caller. 

_twin twin:0_

Ah. “It’s your brother. He’s callin’.”

“He’s calling? Give it.” Will scrambled for the phone, slamming the can he sipped from behind him half hazardly aside.

Schlatt tossed it, pulling his keys and phone from the pocket of his hoodie and turning to his own.

** message: Toby **

_ 2:24pm _

i left while you were asleep

i’ll be home soon

Toby: okay

Toby: m eating cereal

you want mcdonald’s 

Toby: omg omg omg

Toby: yrs

Toby: yed 

Toby: yes please

ok

give me 30 minutes

“ _Now_?” Wilbur, turned away, crossed his arms quimfully. “Like _right_ now?”

A murmur of the speaker in his ear replied flatly.

ok maybe 45

“You’re already— Wait, wait, hold on,” He spiraled, stalking quickly past Schlatt and standing outward towards the edge of the kitchen. “The code?”

Oh shit. Schlatt shut his phone off, turning to the other. 

“3, 9, 1...8, 7...”

Through the silence, he heard the faint separated beeps of the call box from outside.

Wilbur turned to him, eyes wide over his whitened cheeks, both hands hung from the pale grip on the edge of his phone as his lips mouthed, ‘Fuck.’

Another murmur from the speaker behind Wills shaky fingers, over the faint crush of pavement from outside.

Wilbur hit the end button, hanging up.

He stared off, eyes unfocused at the ground.

_Uh oh_ , Schlatt shifted up, straightening slowly.

Wilbur inhaled shortly, exhaling a shaky, drawn out breath.

Silence between the two besides the fidgeting and cracking of Wills knuckles.

“Will- He’s here?”

“Yeah.” He blanked, running his palms through his hair to lay down the frizz, dusting off the lint on his dark jeans. “I’m great, I’m fine. Come with me.”

He reached for and pulled Schlatt by the sleeve of his top towards the front, frantically.

Schlatt’s shoes slid over the polished floor, being dragged away from the kitchen.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ —“ Will sped walked, yanking Schlatt behind him.

“Woah, woah. _Stop_ , slow down, shut the fuck up. Why is he here?” Schlatt planted his foot, stopping the both of them and swinging Will around by his arm. “Why are you stressing out?”

“Just come with me Schlatt, Jesus, just come outside.” He frustratedly fisted his hands, turning again and going for the door. “Give him something other than me to nitpick.”

He had no time to conjure a thought of his own before groaning, and walking after him.

He caught up and gripped Wilburs shoulders into his hands from behind as they returned pace, down the dark hallway.

They stopped for Wilbur to pull at the wrinkles of his shirt and kick on a pair of shoes.

Shielding the turn of his eyebrows, the nervous bite of his inner cheek, he shut his eyes tight.

Just as quick as he’d raised his head from the loom towards the floor, he’d exhaled all the space in his lungs and raised a balled fist to rub his eyes, then slap his cheeks.

“Come on man, what do you think’ll happen?” He reached for the doorknob for him, hand resting on it.

The artificial color flushed his face, eyes opened with a plaster of awakeness and fake assurance.

Wilbur craned his neck, looking back at him. “I don’t know. He’ll call me a lowlife. A deadbeat. A disappointment. It’s always a shot in the dark.”

Schlatt tightened the grip on Wills shoulders momentarily, before letting go completely. 

Schlatt pushed the door open, stepping out first. “It shouldn’t matter.”

A black SUV, a Chevy pulled in. An expensive one, a Tahoe.

It towered past Schlatt’s own car and stopped just in front of the driveway,engine continuing to hum.

Wilbur picked up a light jog to the car, waving until he met the drivers window. 

Walking up to the car as well, Schlatt stood behind him, leant low to the window, glass rolling down.

“Hey man.” Wilbur smiled, arm raised above his eyes to block the sun.

The man glanced up to him, unkempt through his eyes under small wire frame glasses. 

“Hey Will.”His gaze shifting to Schlatt. “Jason.”

Schlatt held a hand out, clutching onto the other’s, scoffing. He used to throw fits when he’d been called that, the other knew.

“What’s up, man? Haven’t seen you in a little, how you been, how’s the old man?” Schlatt stood at Wilburs side, who had rested an arm on the top edge of the window, leant aside to let the two talk.

“Phil’s good,” The other grinned. He articulated his words monotonously, clearly and primly. Still deep as ever. “The family’s good— a lot going on.”

“That’s how it goes.” Schlatt replied, nodding. 

He’d known Blade for as long as he’d been dragged along Wilburs side since freshman year—his real name was David, that was just a dumb nickname that had never grown out of Schlatt’s head.

He recalled passing the cracked door of his room on the way out the mantle room of their big home, moments of choking on laughs, watching him and Will bicker about anything they’d felt like disagreeing on. They would team up in those spats just to take the piss on him. Every day after school he’d saluted him adieu when leaving. They’d shared many hellos, many natural goodbyes. 

He remembered making a dumb bet in senior year on something stupid. Probably the cause of some historical dictators death—either way Schlatt won, proud as he watched the boy paint pink dye into the tips of his hair. It was uncharacteristic, garish, and obnoxious. But it suit him, he didn’t care to wash it out the few months following.

“You’re not coming in?” Schlatt motioned behind him up the driveway.

Blade shook his head, clicking his tongue and nodding to the side.

“No. I’m just dropping something off.” 

He’s just dropping something off? Then why the hell did Wilbur nearly have an anxiety induced heart attack to make things perfect for his arrival?

Wilbur coughed into his fist to clear his throat. “Ah, you’re not coming in? I cleaned for you.” He chuckled.

Sharpening his gaze to him, the other shrugged.

“I have a meeting and a lunch at 3:15.” He looked at his watch, responding bleakly, “You know, I have stuff to do, running the company. Making money. _Someone_ has to.”

Wilburs fake smirk disheveled, as Schlatt watched him shrivel under the sarcasm.

He chewed his tongue awkwardly.

_ Okay. That was an unnecessary jab. _

Fidgeting his hands and cracking his thumb anxiously, Wilbur stammered, “I, I-I uh. Ah...”

He paused, swallowing his pride in retreat. He put on a face of nonchalance.

“—What... what should I know first? Before you go.”

David drummed his calloused fingers on the leather steering wheel. He looked forward, sighing.

“You know why he’s here. We’re leaving him with you for a reason.” He turned towards the two. “But this isn’t just for him. You need to do something for us, every once in a while. Consider this an opportunity.”

Wilburs jaw was screwed shut by his withering confidence—without the guard of his smile his mouth would’ve spilled of defensive words. But David knew that they were locked away in his presence.

“Keep him in check. I couldn’t see how you’ll disappoint us— _his_ expectations are already low.”

_What an asshole_.

Schlatt looked at Wilbur, expectantly. But saw nothing but more silent fidgeting. 

He silently brought a hand up and placed it supportively on the others back, to no reaction.

The inner handle of the back door beside the drivers was jiggled and pulled repeatedly. 

“Turn off you child lock, please! It smells like febreeze in here!” A voice crankily yelled from the backseat behind David.

The two others ignored the beckoning, enamored in their own tensity as Schlatt confusedly reached for the door.

He pulled it open hesitantly.

“So remember. This is disciplinary action, and it’ll be until the end of Summer. He almost got three suspensions this semester _alone_ , Phil had to pay one off to avoid expulsion.”

A pair of beaten converse jumped down onto the concrete from the lifted edge of the car.

The long skinny jeans cuffed at the two thin ankles trailed up far, nearly past Schlatt’s. He was tall.

“I have no further instructions other than to just... watch him.”

He stretched his arms up with the sleeves of his hoodie, yawning exaggeratedly.

He blinked under messy blonde hair, shaking his head.

“...Okay.” Wilbur said in compliant acknowledgment.

The boy grinned, pulling his suitcase from the seat beside him, dropping it carelessly onto the ground. 

“‘ _Ello, Wilby!_ ” He stepped to Will, wrapping his arms tightly around his stiff torso.

Will shook out of his distraction, sighing and patting the boys back.

“Be good for him, Tommy.” David called from his window.

“Yes sir,” He replied, squeezing and letting go with a laugh.

He turned to Schlatt, holding out a hand.

“Hi, Schlatt. It’s been quite a while. ‘Still hopelessly single?” 

Schlatt groaned, meeting his hand with his own.

_Christ_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommyinnit joined the game


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> girls gays and them/they’s, buckle the fuck in because tonight we’re taking it into high fucking gear. are you ready to get your socks blown off? ready to be astounded so much you cartwheel into the hudson river?

“You’ve _never_ watched iCarly?”

“I was more of a Victorious kid.”

Schlatt shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

“The cast was boring.” Toby scrunched his nose. “It only got watchable when... Gibby became a main character.”

Schlatt licked sugar from his knuckle, swiping his palms over the sink and watching the dust fall into the mess of old dishes piled orderlessly at the bottom.

“Shut your yap,” He smacked his lips sarcastically, amusement flushing his face. “Get out of the kitchen. I don’t wanna see your face anymore.”

Toby wiped whatever powder that clung to his hands onto his chest, leaving streaks of white on the fabric of his shirt.

Smiling down at the phone on the counter, he scanned through a page of towers of words. “Try baking by yourself—can I have salt? Do you have salt?”

“Why do you need salt?” Schlatt questioned.

Toby lifted the phone, rereading.

“The recipe says salt.”

“We’re making a _cake_ , why would we need salt?” Schlatt shook his head, grinning in dismission.

“Martha Stewart says salt.”

“I don’t trust women named Martha and neither should you.” Schlatt turned to Toby across from him, leaning on the counter. He threw a rag over his shoulder. 

Toby crossed his arms. “I wanna put salt.” 

He had just been forced to buy ten different bottles of seasoning by a woman who only ate longhorns steak house.

“Fuck salt. I only use _hardcore rubbed smokey steak seasoning_.”

“Do you wanna put that in the cake?” Tobytilted his head.

Schlatt blinked.

“Okay. The salt’s in that cabinet.” He nodded to a cupboard beside the suspended microwave.

The boy brightened, stepping to the cabinet.

Schlatt came forward to where Toby had been and read over the phone that displayed the list of steps in blocks of lengthy paragraphs.

It was dented in the corners, in a shitty case. It wasn’t new. He’d pulled it from a dusty drawer and given it to Toby to be able to text him during long shifts, who came with nothing but a few clothes, neither a phone of his own.

He was ecstatic when Schlatt gave it to him. ‘Is this just for me, Mr. Schlatt?’ he’d awed.

I should get him a laptop or something, he thought to himself.

He scrolled to the next step as the carton of salt thumped heavily, dropped onto the counter. 

“Why do you have a pound of salt?” Toby said, reading the label of the big tub.

Schlatt kept his gaze locked on the screen, focused.

“Don’t question my salt if you’re gonna put it in the cake. The delicious soft fluffy vanilla cake from Martha.”

The boy came and stood beside Schlatt at the counter.

“- _Stewart_.” Toby poured a pinch into his palm and dropped it into the large bowl as Schlatt squinted at the screen.

**_ Incorporate the dry ingredients with the wet ingredients. _ **

“And what do we do if we see Martha Stewart walking through the street?” He asked whimsically, pulling the bowl of liquidy compound towards him.

Toby hummed in thought, swiping his hands. 

“Um... Kick her?”

“In her shins. She doesn’t need them to cook.” Schlatt looked around for a spoon, tapping the covered marble surface. “ _Back to topic_ —we need to finish the conversation.”

Placing a wooden spoon into Schlatt’s open palm, Toby raised an eyebrow. 

“What conversation?”

Lip snarled, eyes widened in disgust, Schlatt snapped, “How you think the show that pioneered Nickelodeon wasn’t crafted to perfection! That not every episode was made with the _highest_ respect, that none completely shaped a generation of kids into the men they are today—“

“Are you a poet?” Toby yelled back, arms thrown up defensively. His voice jumped and faded into hiccups of giggles.

The air forced its way out of his lungs as Schlatt released a laugh, holding his chest.

“Stop laughing! I’ve never been more serious than I am now.” He struggled to push coherent words through the vice of his quivering smile, pointing the spoon accusatorily at the boys face. “How dare you—“

Toby shook his head, bringing his hands and counting on his fingers. “No, no, no, tell me why Victorious is so bad. _Tell me_. The cast was stacked, the jokes were funnier, they had Kesha.” 

Schlatt threw the wooden paddle into the bowl, playfully sluggish. 

“What do you know about Kesha?” He picked up a mixing bowl, caked with milk and eggs, placing it to Tobys two open palms. “She was before your time.”

Toby pulled the bowl to his chest, taking his hand up to lick the wet mixture that’d smeared from the drip down the outside onto a knuckle.

He frowned, smacking his lips in distaste. 

“You’re only a millennial.” He grimaced. “We need the sugar and stuff, please. That was awful.”

Schlatt ran a whirl through the dry ingredients with one stiffly uncertain stab and fold.

He never knew learned how to cook for himself, through his youth. Time was a scarce object when he’d juggled getting his associates by the time he’d graduated high school, and working long shifts after work. 

He’d owed it to Phil, Will asked him about that opening at the new restaurant owned by one of the elitess families they’d associated with. The next day Schlatt picked up a call that told him that he’d be working 4-11pm from Thursday to Sunday at the nicest steakhouse in town for more money than he knew what to do with.

When discovering the ease of ordering food with overpriced shipping between the bites of carbonara he’d shared with other young coworkers that’d been sent back by unwarranted nitpick, he’d never found the trivial matter of cooking for himself necessary.

But, a sudden wave of urge to had been pestering his conscience in the prior few weeks. He didn’t know why.

“Michelle Obama was on iCarly. ‘M gonna dump this in. Hold it over the counter.” Schlatt replied, dropping the spoon.

He took the bowl from the crook of his forearms into both hands, and tipped it all over Tobys, flour dropping and exploding white into the air. 

The two coughed the dust into their lungs, swatting at the cloud congesting their vision. 

As the flour dissipated from the space between them, and them began to see each other again, their hacks and wheezes continued until the powder settled a layer onto nearly every surface.

Schlatt squinted his eyes open, blurred by the flour thrown onto his eyelashes, at Toby. His cheeks were powder white and shook back to rosiness with every decrescending cough.

Looking down at his whitened shirt, clearing his throat as the two stilled.

They looked at each other blankly, holding their tongues as the air cleared out completely.

And then Tobys mouth contorted into a small smile, held back behind more white powder. A giggle, eyes up squinted at Schlatt, growing into a laugh.

What a nice noise. It sent Schlatt’s stomach into a twist, gave him a lump pulsating up and down in his throat. It made the corners of his mouth turn upward without him ever realizing it.

Schlatt hunched down into a wheeze, setting the bowl down to rub his thumb across the boys cheek, wiping a streak off of his face.

The two threw their heads back into their shared giggles, brushing off their clothes as the bowl was set down.

“Okay, okay—hold on,” Schlatt choked out from a laugh as he tore paper towels from the roll and wet them under the faucet.

He tossed a wrung sheet to Toby, who wiped it over his face and shook his head, more loose clouds jumping off his fluffy hair.

“Mix it, we need to put it in so we can eat it straight from the pan on the couch.” He rinsed his own face under the running water, shaking his hands off.

“Yes Mr. Schlatt.” Toby replied, brushing off his chest and grabbing the spoon.

_Still callin’ me that._ Schlatt thought to himself. It wasn’t the worst of names, though. He wouldn’t change it, he wouldn’t dare. 

It’d been maybe less then three weeks— that had become something indifferent to him to something he became fond of. 

He started making points of never lingering at the office with a coworker past when he was needed. He started driving more carefully home, started finding a reason to get there safely. He hadn’t drank for two weeks. He hadn’t disregarded dinner in longer. It was impossible to care for someone else without taking care of yourself.

He didn’t dread those moments at home anymore. The silence of his usual lumber alone became shared with someone else, in between new moments of comfortable banter.

This wasn’t the worst of circumstances. He wouldn’t change it, _he wouldn’t dare._

Schlatt’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he dried his hands on his shirt.

The calls from his friends, asking to do something that night became less and less frequent. Wilbur had been frantic over the past few days until his brothers arrival the day or two before. The others knew that he had other things going on. He didn’t mind. 

_wanker_ Is Calling...

Schlatt picked up with a deep exhale, holding the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, what’s up, man?”

“Hi.”

“...Hi?”

He could hear Wilbur hiccup over the line.

“Hi Schlattie pie.”

“ _Hi_ Wilbur. What’s up.” Schlatt rubbed his eyes, turning on the counter to face Tobys back.

The boy turned around, eyebrow cocked at Schlatt. Schlatt mouthed, ‘Hold on, kid.’

“I’m outside.”

“... _Why_?”

“‘M comin’ in.”

“Okay. Tobys here.”

“Good.”

The line cut out, decline button ringing his ear as he stuck it back in his pocket. He spoke to Toby, arms crossed. “You know Wilbur, right?”

Shaking his head as he mixed the bowl held to his stomach, the other turned to face Schlatt.

“Never met him.”

“Yes you have. Saw ‘m at the bodega.”

“The guy with the grandpa jumper? I thought he was a homeless man.”

“He’s a 22 year old millionaire.” Schlatt tilted his head. “He’s walking in right now.”

He heard the faint scrape of shoes on the steps outside, nearing the door with long drags and crowded scuffs.

‘ _Get up! Get up—you piece of shit—_ ‘

Then an occupied pound on the door.

‘Schlatt, big man, open up! _Please_!’ Yelled a raspy, exasperated voice that wasn’t Wilburs.

Schlatt strided quickly to the door, hesitantly turning the knob. 

Tommy stood, arm supporting him on the railing as he struggled to stand. Over his shoulders was a limp, lanky arm, dragging Tommy down with the weight of 200 pounds.

Wilbur squished Tommy’s inflamed cheeks in his fingers with the hand around his neck, the other holding half a cheeseburger.

Through a rosy face, Wilbur made kissy faces and smushed, “Tommy, Tom, Tom, we’re here! We’re at Schlatts!”

Tommy seethed up at Schlatt. 

“ _Take him_. He’s fuckin’ heavy.”

Schlatt sighed, bent low to Wilburs waist as he held his knees together, standing up with a struggle and throwing the man over his shoulder.

“Hi Schlatt.”

“Hi Wilbur.” He grunted, kicking the door closed with a knee as Tommy straightened, stepping in and sighing in relief. “What the hell is this, Tommy?”

Shrugging, the boy stretched his back out. His skin was flushed in exhaustion, chest heaving as he breathed shallowly. “I don’t know.”

Wilburs arms hung from behind Schlatt, face pressed into his lower back. 

“I’m okay! Put me down. I feel like a child.”

He might as well have been one. Schlatt leant forward and set Wilburs feet together on the tile, letting him straighten and letting go of his thighs.

He stood straight again, readjusting his shirt down from the pull as Wilbur held onto the back of the couch. 

Will stilled, and began to sway as he rubbed his eyes with one hand, taking the hamburger into his mouth with the other.

He toppled back behind the edge of the sofa, falling onto the cushion with a grunt.

Schlatt stared at him chewing his lip in frustration. “Did you drive here, Wilbur?”

“No. I’m not _irresponsible_.”

“I drove.” Tommy said from his place beside the front door. “He tried to skateboard. But he doesn’t know how to skateboard.”

“Oh my god.”

“Why are you mad, Schlattie?” Will called from the couch.

“Because he’s _fifteen_!” Schlatt ran his hands over his face.

“It’s okay. I know how to drive. I’ve driven.”

“He drives a stick.”

“And it was an adventure!” Tommy threw his hands up, eyebrows raised.

“It was an adventure. We got this hamburger.” Will raised the burger up, arm extended as he waved it around.

Schlatt leant over the back of the sofa and snatched it out of Wilburs hand. 

“My hamburger!” He groaned, sitting up and grabbing at Schlatt’s shirt to get it back.

“Fuck your hamburger! Why are you drunk at 4 on a Thursday?” Schlatt swatted at his hands, pulling away.

Will slumped over the edge, running his hands over the leather. He pressed his cheek into his knuckles, pouting. 

“Because it’s 9pm somewhere,” He mumbled. “Wilburs sad.”

He straightened out and looked around, eyes locking in the kitchen. “Hi, Toby!” He waved.

“Hello.” Toby waved back from the kitchen, having watched the scene while mixing the bowl of batter. 

Tommy’s eyes brightened hearing the boys voice, turning from his attent on the two men. He walked to the kitchen.

“Hi. ‘M Tommy. Are you Toby?” He stood tall above the other, having to look down even from feet away as he held a clammy hand out.

Toby dropped the spoon into the bowl, face inquisitive.

“Ah, yes. I’m Toby. Hi Tommy.” He reached a flour dusted hand out, as they shook each others.

“What are you baking?”

“...A cake.”

“Can I help you?”

“...Yes.”

Schlatt turned his attention back to Wilbur. “What the hell is up with you Wilbur?”

“Don’t be mean.” Wilbur turned, falling back down into a heap in the cushions. “I came here because I _missed_ you.”

Schlatt walked around the side of the couch and sat beside him, to the right of his buried head. He crossed his arms, burger held away from Will as he sunk.

“Why are you sad, Wilbur?” He sighed.

Will tucked his head further into the crook of the couch.

“B’cuth he’s so mean to me.” He muffled.

“Who?” Schlatt propped his feet up on his coffee table.

“Dave. My brother—my _favorite_ brother.” He chuckled. “So mean. Sayin’ I don’t do shit. Calls me a failure. Treats me like a toddler. ‘M not one, y’know, I’m 22.”

“I know. You’re almost 23.” Schlatt entertained, tone softening just slightly.

Wilbur pushed his body around, groaning.“Yeah. I am. ‘N I cant do anything on my own.”

He rolled onto his back, settling and sighing as he stared at the ceiling.

“23.”

Schlatt sucked on his teeth, drumming his fingers on his knee as he juggled the words refusing to push from his head.

He heard light laughter behind from the kitchen.

“I don’t know. ‘S been like... three days? Three days.” Wilbur yawned. “And I still feel so shitty.”

Schlatt couldn’t remember a time where banter between Wilbur and David wasn’t the groundwork of their relationship. He’d laughed as they argued about trivial things; like what movie they wanted to watch, or who cleaned out the mashed potatoes.

His laugh over time lessened to a smile, to a lighthearted beckoning of resolvance, to nothing. A scowl, as the bickering became more than childish scolding, more than just indolent bicker.

Talking only led to more. They both knew the easiest way to keep away from each others throats was to limit conversation.

He knew Wilbur had saddened over time, at the loss of his brother.

He also knew that he’d felt shitty for more than just three days.

“What if he’s right, Schlatt?” Will muttered.

Schlatt patted his friends chest. He exhaled deeply.

“Wilbur, you know that you’re not.” He replied. “I’m not gonna sugar coat shit—You don’t need it.”  He wasn’t the type of person to only tell someone what they wanted to hear.

“—You’re not a failure. But you sure as hell need to get your shit together. Look at you right now.”

Wilbur looked down at his shaky hands, staring off.

“You’re proving his point, you dumbass. Your instructions were to watch your brother. Keep him in line. And you’re not doin’ that.”

“...I know.” 

“Then stop. You’re being reckless.”

Wilbur closed his eyes, lifting his head and resting it on Schlatt’s leg. 

“I know.” He sighed.

Schlatt craned his neck, around to the kitchen. Toby smiled shyly as Tommy shook the bowl above his head, tongue out to collect drops of batter. Tommy winced and cursed when some flung into his eye, running around and shoving his head under the faucet. 

‘Shit shit shit-“

‘You’re gonna water board yourself!’

He felt Wills breathing become more regular, slowing into melancholy snoring as he turned back.

“I know you do.” He said.


End file.
